LIBRARY 

OF  THF. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


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THE- LISTENING 
CHILD 


THE    LISTENING   CHILD 


THE  LISTENING  CHILD 


A  SELECTION  FROM  THE  STORES  OF  ENGLISH 

VERSE,  MADE  FOR  THE  YOUNGEST 

READERS  AND  HEARERS 

BY 

LUCY  W.   THACHER 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

BY 

THOMAS  WENTWORTH   HIGGINSON 


or  THE 
UNIVERSITY 

or 


gork 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON  :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1903 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1899, 
BY  THE  M  ACM  ILL  AN   COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  October,  1899.     Reprinted  July, 
1900    ;  September,  1901;  October,  1903. 


J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mast.  U.S.A. 


PRELIMINARY   NOTE 

SELECTIONS  of  poetry  for  children  are  numerous,  — 
perhaps  too  numerous,  —  but  it  has  not  often  been  my 
lot  to  encounter  one  so  carefully  thought  out  and  intel- 
ligently arranged  as  that  of  Mrs.  Thacher.  A  mere 
glance  at  the  proportions  assigned  to  different  authors 
and  periods  will  show  this  to  be  true  ;  and  especially  the 
prominence  given  to  purely  imaginative  writers,  like 
Blake  and  Emily  Dickinson,  shows  a  willingness  to  rec- 
ognize and  cultivate  that  ideal  side  of  children  which, 
after  all,  affords  the  best  part  of  their  lives. 

The  preliminary  essay,  although  it  may  seem  at  first 
to  demand  too  much  from  young  children,  and  may 
require  in  some  cases  to  be  read  to  them,  rather  than 
by  them,  will  be  found  full  of  suggestion  and  will  be 
more  and  more  valued  with  further  study. 

THOMAS  WENTWORTH   HIGGINSON. 


130199 


EDITORIAL    NOTE 

WHILE  trustworthy  texts  have  been  followed  with 
care,  it  has  nevertheless  been  found  best,  in  meeting  the 
special  needs  of  young  children,  to  omit  certain  lines ; 
and  some  old  English  words  have  been  modernized  in 
spelling  or  even  replaced,  occasionally,  by  words  from 
the  vocabulary  of  a  child  of  to-day. 

Thanks  are  due  to  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin,  Si  Com- 
pany, as  publishers  of  Holmes,  Longfellow,  Whittier, 
Emerson,  and  Mr.  Aldrich,  to  Messrs.  Appleton  &  Com- 
pany, as  publishers  of  Bryant,  and  to  Messrs.  Little, 
Brown,  &  Company,  as  publishers  of  Emily  Dickinson's 
Poems,  for  their  courtesy  in  permitting  the  use  of  cer- 
tain poems  from  their  several  publications ;  also  to 
Mr.  T.  B.  Aldrich,  for  allowing  this  use  of  his  poems, 
and  to  Miss  Lydia  Very,  for  similar  kindness  in  regard 
to  poems  of  Jones  Very. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A  SHORT  TALK  TO  CHILDREN  ABOUT  POETRY        .        .        .        .     xxi 


PART  FIRST 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM.     (1564-1616.) 

Morning      ...........3 

Song  —  The  Greenwood  Tree     .         .         .         .         .                  .  4 

Queen  Mab 5 

Ariel's  Songs,  I,  II,  and  III 6 

Lullaby  for  Titania 8 

Song  of  the  Fairy 9 

The  Approach  of  the  Fairies       .......  10 

Madrigal,  Crabbed  Age  and  Youth 12 

Winter 13 

Madrigal,  Tell  Me  where  is  Fancy  Bred 14 

Who  is  Sylvia? 15 

How  should  I  your  True  Love  know?         .         .         .         .         .16 

BARNFIELD,  RICHARD.     (1574-1627.) 

The  Nightingale 17 

DRAYTON,  MICHAEL.     (1563-1631.) 

Queen  Mab's  Visit  to  Pigwiggen 19 

VAUTOR,  THOMAS.     (Seventeenth  century.) 

Sweet  Suffolk  Owl 21 

NASH,  THOMAS.     (1567-1601.) 

Spring        ...........22 

JONSON,  BEN.     (1573-1637.) 

The  Noble  Nature 23 

A  Wish 23 

Chans'  Triumph          .         .         .         .         .         „         ..         .24 
ix 


/Eglamour's  Lament 26 

Hymn  to  Diana 27 

DRUMMOND,  WILLIAM.     (1585-1649.) 

Phyllis 28 

FLETCHER,  JOHN.     (1576-1625.) 

To  Pan 29 

Folding  the  Flocks 30 

DEKKER,  THOMAS.     (1575-1640?) 

Rustic  Song        ..........       32 

Lullaby 34 

HEYWOOD,  THOMAS.     (0000-1649?) 

Song  —  Morning 35 

Praise  of  Ceres 36 

BROWNE,  WILLIAM.     (1588-1643.) 

The  Hunted  Squirrel 37 

The  Description  of  Walla 38 

WITHER,  GEORGE.     (1588-1667.) 

For  Summer  Time 40 

A  Christmas  Carol 42 

CAREW,  THOMAS.     (1589-1639.) 

Spring 43 

HERRICK,  ROBERT.     (1594-1674.) 

To  Violets 44 

To  Daffodils 45 

The  Bag  of  the  Bee 46 

The  Succession  of  the  Four  Sweet  Months          .         .         ;         .       47 

SUCKLING,  SIR  JOHN.     (1608-1642.) 

A  Ballad  upon  a  Wedding 48 

LOVELACE,  RICHARD.     (1618-1658.) 

The  Grasshopper 51 

HERBERT,  GEORGE.     (1593-1632.) 

Virtue        .         .  52 

COWLEY,  ABRAHAM.     (1618-1667.) 

The  Thirsty  Earth  Soaks  up  the  Rain 53 

The  Grasshopper 54 

MILTON,  JOHN.      (1608-1674.) 

On  May  Morning       ..........       56 


Songs  from  Corn  us 57 

MARVELL,  ANDREW.     (1621-1678.) 

What  Wondrous  Life  is  This  I  Lead 60 

DRYDEN,  JOHN.  (1631-1700.) 

The  Trumpet's  Loud  Clangor 61 

POPE,  ALEXANDER.  (1688-1744.) 

Ode  on  Solitude 62 

RAMSAY,  ALLAN.  (1686-1758.) 

My  Peggy 63 

OLDYS,  WILLIAM.  (1698-1761.) 

To  a  Fly 65 

THOMSON,  JAMES.  (1700-1748.) 

Nightingale  .  . 66 

ADAMS,  JEAN.  (1710-1765.) 

The  Sailor's  Wife 67 

SHENSTONE,  WILLIAM.  (1714-1763.) 

The  Shepherd's  Home 69 

COLLINS,  WILLIAM.  (1721-1759.) 

How  Sleep  the  Brave 70 

GRAY,  THOMAS.  (1716-1771.) 

Spring 71 

GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER. 

The  Schoolmaster 72 

COWPER,  WILLIAM.  (1731-1800.) 

The  Cricket 73 

The  Nightingale  and  the  Glow-worm         .....       74 

The  Loss  of  the  Royal  George .       75 

On  a  Spaniel  called  "  Beau  "  Killing  a  Young  Bird    ...       77 

The  Faithful  Bird 80 

SMITH,  CHARLOTTE.  (1749-1806.) 

The  First  Swallow 82 

ANONYMOUS.  (Eighteenth  century.) 

The  Useful  Plough 83 

Annie  Laurie      ..........       84 

Coming  Through  the  Rye 85 

BURNS,  ROBERT.  (1759-1796.) 

Up  in  the  Morning  Early .86 

xi 


PAGE 

'    Hey,  the  Dusty  Miller 87 

Tibbie  Dunbar 88 

The  Captain's  Lady 89 

My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands 90 

John  Anderson 91 

Cock  up  your  Beaver 92 

A  Red,  Red  Rose 93 

The  Winsome  Wee  Thing  . 94 

Phyllis  the  Fair 95 

Bannockburn 96 

Chloe 98 

BLAKE,  WILLIAM.     (1757-1827.) 

The  Child  and  the  Piper 99 

A  Cradle  Song 100 

A  Laughing  Song 101 

The  Echoing  Green 102 

The  Lamb 104 

Nurse's  Song 105 

Night 106 

Infant  Joy 107 

The  Shepherd     .                 108 

ROGERS,  SAMUEL.     (1763-1855.) 

An  Epitaph  on  a  Robin  Redbreast 109 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM.     (1770-1850.) 

To  the  Cuckoo no 

I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud .112 

To  a  Skylark 113 

The  Kitten  and  the  Falling  Leaves 115 

Written  in  March 117 

To  a  Butterfly     .        .         . 118 

The  Rainbow 119 

The  Redbreast  Chasing  the  Butterfly 120 

The  Revery  of  Poor  Susan 122 

WORDSWORTH,  DOROTHY.     (1771-1855.) 

The  Cottager  to  Her  Infant 123 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR.     (1772-1834.) 

Song.     A  Sunny  Shaft  did  I  Behold 124 

xii 


PAGE 

Hunting  Song 125 

The  Child  in  the  Wilderness 126 

Answers  to  a  Child's  Question    .         .         .         .         .         .         .127 

SOUTHEY,  ROBERT.     (1774-1843.) 

The  Inchcape  Rock 128 

After  Blenheim 131 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER.     (1771-1832.) 

Boat  Song 134 

Jock  of  Hazeldean 136 

Allen-a-Dale 138 

The  Lighthouse 140 

County  Guy __  141 

Hunting  Song    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .142 

Lullaby  of  an  Infant  Child  ........  144 

Pibroch  of  Donald  Dhu 145 

Lochinvar 147 

Border  Ballad •                .         .         .  150 

BYRON,  LORD.     (1788-1824.) 

Childe  Harold's  Farewell  to  England 151 

The  Night  before  Waterloo 153 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE.     (1792-1822.) 

Autumn:  a  Dirge 155 

The  Widow  Bird         .                  156 

The  Cloud .         .         . 157 

KEATS,  JOHN.    (1795-1821.) 

Faery  Song 160 

Meg  Merrilies 161 

Song,  The  Dove .         .163 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket 164 

Robin  Hood 165 

COLERIDGE,  HARTLEY.     (1796-1849.) 

November 167 

CAMPBELL,  THOMAS.     (1777-1844.) 

The  Parrot 168 

Poor  Dog  Tray 1 70 

Glenara 172 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 174 

xiii 


(  PAGE 

Hohenlinden 177 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 179 

MOORE,  THOMAS.     (1779-1852.) 

The  Light  of  Other  Days 181 

A  Canadian  Boat  Song 183 

HUNT,  LEIGH.     (1784-1859.) 

Jenny  Kissed  Me 184 

Abou  Ben  Adhem .         .185 

The  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket 186 

LAMB,  CHARLES.     (1775-1834.) 

The  Housekeeper 187 

HOGG,  JAMES.'    (1770-1835.) 

*  The  Skylark .188 

Boy's  Song 189 

Charlie  is  My  Darling 190 

CLARE,  JOHN.     (1793-1864.) 

The  Thrush's  Nest .         .         .192 

PEACOCK,  THOMAS  LOVE.     (1785-1856.) 

The  Priest  and  the  Mulberry  Tree 193 

Song  —  For  the  Tender  Beech  and  the  Sapling  Oak  .         .         .195 

CUNNINGHAM,  ALLAN.     (1784-1842.) 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea 196 

My  Ain  Countree 197 

BARRY  CORNWALL  (Procter,  B.  W.).     (1787-1874.) 

The  Sea 198 

The  Owl »        .200 

HOOD,  THOMAS.     (1799-1845.) 

I  Remember,  I  Remember 202 

Song,  A  Lake  and  a  Fairy  Boat 204 

LOVER,  SAMUEL.     (1797-1866.) 

Rory  O'More 205 

Baby  Dear .         . 207 

The  Angels' Whisper 208 

The  Low-backed  Car . .     210 

MACAULAY,  THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LORD.    (1800-1859.) 

Ivry,  A  Song  of  the  Huguenots .212 

xiv 


PAGE 

AYTOUN,  WILLIAM  EDMONDSTOUNE.     (1813-1865.) 

The  Old  Scottish  Cavalier ,   .        .         .216 

BEDDOES,  THOMAS  LOVELL.    (1803-1849.) 

The  Sea 219 

WOLFE,  CHARLES.     (1791-1823.) 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 220 

HOWITT,  MARY.     (1799-1888.) 

The  Sea  Fowler 222 

Summer  Woods ..........     224 

MOULTRIE,  JOHN.     (1799-1874.) 

Violets 227 

MILLER,  HUGH.     (1802-1856.) 

The  Babie 228 

MILLER,  WILLIAM.    (1810-1872.) 

Willie  Winkie 229 

NORTON,  CAROLINE  E.  S.     (1808-1877.) 

The  King  of  Denmark's  Ride 230 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN.     (1794-1878.) 

Robert  of  Lincoln 232 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian 235 

Song  of  Marion's  Men 236 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO.     (1803-1882.) 

The  Humble-Bee 239 

Fable,  The  Mountain  and  the  Squirrel 241 

The  Rhodora 242 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF.     (1807-1892.) 

The  Barefoot  Boy 243 

The  Huskers 246 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH.     (1807-1882.) 

Twilight 250 

The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers 252 

From  Hiawatha's  Childhood 254 

Serenade 258 

Pegasus  in  Pound       .   ' 259 

The  Village  Blacksmith 262 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL.     (1809-1894.) 

The  Last  Leaf 264 

xv 


PAGE 

Old  Ironsides 266 

VERY,  JONES.     (1813-1880.) 

To  the  Humming-Bird 267 

FIELDS,  JAMES  T.     (1817-1881.) 

The  Ballad  of  the  Tempest 268 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL.     (1819-1891.) 

The  Fountain     ..........  269 

WILDER,  JOHN  NICHOLS. 

Stand  by  the  Flag 271 

MCMASTER,  GUY  HUMPHREY.     (1829-1887.) 

Carmen  Bellicosum 273 

O'HARA,  THEODORE.     (1820-1867.) 

The  Muffled  Drum's  Sad  Roll 276 

HOUGHTON,  LORD  (Richard  Monckton  Milnes).     (1809-1885.) 

Good-Night  and  Good-Morning 277 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED,  LORD.     (1809-1892.) 

Break,  Break,  Break 278 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 279 

Song.    The  Owl 282 

Second  Song.     To  the  Same 283 

The  Merman 284 

The  Mermaid 285 

The  Bugle  Song 286 

Cradle  Song        .                 287 

When? 288 

Winter 289 

Lullaby 290 

The  Brook 291 

BROWNING,  ROBERT.     (1812-1889.) 

Home-Thoughts  from  Abroad 294 

Boot  and  Saddle 295 

Song  from  Pippa  Passes 296 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 297 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT.     (1806-1861.) 

Children  gathering  Palms  ........  299 

The  Romance  of  the  Swan's  Nest 301 


xvi 


ARNOLD,  MATTHEW.     (1822-1888.) 

The  Neckan 304 

Callicles'  Song  of  Apollo     .         .         .    • 307 

Evening 309 

CLOUGH,  ARTHUR  HUGH.     (1819-1861.) 

Where  Lies  the  Land?        . 310 

THACKERAY,  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE.     (1819-1863.) 

After  the  Storm .         .         .311 

The  Rose  upon  My  Balcony 312 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES.     (1819-1875.) 

The  Sands  of  Dee .     313 

The  Three  Fishers 314 

A  Farewell 315 

The  Old,  Old  Song 316 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM.     (1824-1889.) 

The  Fairies,  A  Child's  Song      '.         .    ' 317 

Robin  Redbreast 320 

Half  Waking 322 

DOBELL,  SIDNEY.     (1824-0x300.) 

How's  My  Boy? 323 

WESTWOOD,  THOMAS.     (1814-1888.) 

Under  My  Window 325 

Little  Bell 327 

PRENTISS,  ELIZABETH.     (1818-1878.) 

Cradle  Song.     (From  the  German.) 330 

ROSSETTI,  CHRISTINA  GEORGINA.     (1830-1894.) 

Milking  Time 332 

Twist  Me  a  Crown 332 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES.     (1843-0000.) 

Etude  Realiste,  I,  II,  and  III 333 

White  Butterflies 335 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY.     (1836-0000.) 

Before  the  Rain 336 

The  Voice  of  the  Sea 337 

DICKINSON,  EMILY.     (1830-1886.) 

Autumn     .         .         .         ..         .         .         .         .         .         .     338 

The  Grass .     339 

xvii 


A  Day 34O 

HIGGINSON,  ELLA. 

Four-Leaf  Clover        . 341 

Beside  the  Sea •         -342 

Cradle-Song  of  the  Fisherman's  Wife 343 

A  Fairy's  Love-Song 345 

DOBSON,  HENRY  AUSTIN.     (1840-0000.) 

The  Cure's  Progress 34° 

An  April  Pastoral •         •         •         -34^ 

WEATHERLY,  FREDERIC  E. 

Darby  and  Joan 349 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  Louis.     (1850-1894.) 

My  Shadow 

The  Lamplighter , 

Bed  in  Summer 

Singing 354 


xvin 


PART   SECOND 

PAGE 

CHAUCER,  GEOFFREY.     (1340-1400.) 

Queen  Alcestis  and  the  God  of  Love 357 

DUNBAR,  WILLIAM.     (1450-1513.) 

Dame  Nature  Crowns  the  Scottish  Lion  King  of  Beasts       .         .  359 

SKELTON,  JOHN.     (i46o?-i529.) 

To  Mistress  Margaret  Hussey 361 

BALLADS.      (Fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries.) 

Lord  Ronald .  363 

The  Gardener 364 

Glenlogie 366 

Lord  Lovel 368 

The  Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington 371 

SURREY,  EARL  OF.     (1518-1547.) 

Description  of  Spring 374 

The  Age  of  Children 375 

SPENSER,  EDMUND.     (1552-1598.) 

Wake  Now,  My  Love,  Awake  ! 376 

The  Bride 377 

Cupid  and  the  Bee 378 

CONSTABLE,  HENRY.     (1555-1615.) 

Damelus'  Song  to  Diaphenia      .         .         .       • .         .         .         .  380 

Song  to  his  Flock 381 

GEEENE,  ROBERT.     (1560-1592.) 

•      Menaphon's  Roundelay      ........  382 

Doron's  Jig 384 

MARLOWE,  CHRISTOPHER.     (1564-1593.) 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love 386 


A  SHORT  TALK  TO  CHILDREN  ABOUT 
POETRY 

fHIS  would  be  a  dull  world  without  song;  if  birds 
had  nothing  to  say  but  to  cry  from  hunger  or  fear, 
if  frogs  didn't  croak  or  crickets  chirp  for  the  fun  of  it ; 
worse  than  all,  if  we  people  had  no  use  for  words  except 
to  help  in  our  business. 

But,  since  language  began,  men  have  always  been 
making  poetry  of  it,  setting  up  arrangements  of  words 
and  lines  that  have  a  mysterious  power  to  start  strange 
or  sweet  thoughts  singing  through  the  mind. 

This  power  seems  like  the  power  of  an  enchanter,  for 
no  one  can  fully  explain  it,  and  even  the  poets  them- 
selves, the  enchanters,  cannot  tell  when  they  are  going 
to  make  it  work.  For  they  do  not  make  true  poetry  all 
the  time  that  they  write  verses.  Much  of  the  time  they 
are  just  talking  or  humming  along,  perhaps  pleasantly, 
perhaps  rather  stupidly,  and,  the  first  thing  we  know 
and  the  first  thing  they  know,  they  are  stirring  our 
hearts  with  song. 

That  there  is  mystery  in  this  power  you  may  believe 
when  you  remember  that  the  youngest  of  you  has  some- 
times been  delighted  with  a  poem,  or  a  part  of  a  poem, 


whose  meaning  he  could  but  faintly  understand.  Per- 
haps you  do  not  know  that  some  very  learned  man,  who 
could  tell  the  history  of  every  word  in  the  lines,  might 
quite  fail  to  catch  the  beauty  that  was  felt  by  that  child 
who  could  not  even  speak  distinctly. 

There  is  much  more  in  this  than  we  have  time  now 
to  talk  about,  but  you  can  see  that,  since  the  power  to 
make  true  poetry  and  the  power  truly  to  hear  it  are 
things  that  learning  cannot  work  out,  because  there 
is  something  in  them  that  we  can  fairly  call  magic, 
therefore  you  unlearned  children  stand  side  by  side 
with  your  elders  in  this  matter,  and  must  be  considered 
a  serious  part  of  the  poet's  audience.  Indeed,  you  are 
of  the  number  of  his  judges,  and  he  must  not  give  you 
any  baby-talk. 

So,  in  this  selection  of  poems  made  for  you  from 
among  the  greater  English  poets  of  the  past  six  hun- 
dred years,  there  are  very  few  which  were  written 
especially  for  children.  The  best  are  not  too  good 
for  you  if  you  can  hear  them,  and  sometimes  you  can 
hear  the  sweetness  or  the  greatness  sounding  through 
a  poem,  although  you  do  not  quite  know  what  it  is 
about. 

There  are  poems  here  that  may  puzzle  the  largest  of 
you ;  but  there  are  none  which  are  altogether  beyond 
the  hearing  of  the  smallest.  Indeed,  they  have  been 
submitted,  nearly  all  of  them,  to  a  little  girl  who  has 
not  yet  learned  to  read.  They  had  to  pass  an  examina- 
tion on  their  power  to  please  her. 

I  hope  you  will  not  think,  because  I  have  said  that 


the  youngest  ear  may  often  catch  the  note  of  beauty  in 
a  great  poem,  that  therefore  you  have  nothing  to  learn 
in  this  matter.  It  is  much  like  music;  repeated  thought- 
ful listening  will  feed  the  power  to  hear,  and  the  magic 
of  words  will  grow  in  your  understanding,  so  that  more 
poetry  will  speak  to  you  than  at  first,  and  that  which 
already  speaks  to  you  will  say  more  and  more.  And 
what  is  better  worth  your  while  than  thus,  from  year 
to  year,  to  gain  power  to  receive  that  enchantment  by 
which  poetry,  the  music  of  language,  is  continually 
lifting  and  sweetening  the  thought  of  men  and  women 
and  children  ? 

Six  hundred  years  is  about  the  age  of  our  poetry. 
For,  though  the  language  did  not  begin  at  any  exact 
time,  yet,  if  you  should  look  farther  back,  you  would 
find  the  words  so  different  from  ours  that  it  would  be 
like  reading  a  foreign  language. 

The  English  language  came  first  from  North  Ger- 
many, with  the  Anglo-Saxons,  who  conquered  what  is 
now  England.  While  it  was  growing  and  changing, 
through  the  centuries,  as  all  languages  do,  new  con- 
querors came,  the  Normans,  who  brought  in  the  French 
words  that  they  had  learned  to  use.  After  a  while  these 
two  languages  began  to  mix,  and  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, the  time  of  Chaucer,  the  mixture  had  become 
pretty  well  stirred,  and  most  of  the  words  we  use  were 
already  in  the  language,  though  many  of  them  wore  a 
shape  as  strange  and  curious  to  our  eyes  as  the  pictur- 
esque costumes  of  the  people  whom  Chaucer  tells  about. 
With  some  puzzling,  we  can  make  out  most  of  what 


Chaucer  says,  and  we  feel  that  his  language  is  ours  and 
his  poetry  our  poetry. 

After  Chaucer,  the  language  changed  less  rapidly  than 
before,  for,  as  he  was  at  once  seen  to  be  a  great  poet, 
writers  following  him  were  naturally  familiar  with  his 
poems,  and  so  had  a  sort  of  monument  of  words  to  refer 
to.  And,  as  more  books  came  to  be  written  in  English, 
and,  after  a  while,  the  printing-press  was  discovered  and 
set  to  distributing  books  rapidly,  the  language  became 
more  and  more  settled,  though  it  has  never  entirely 
stopped  changing,  and  never  will,  while  it  is  alive. 

Very  little  of  Geoffrey  Chaucer's  poetry  is  given  in 
this  collection,  because  his  language  is  still  too  difficult 
for  you  to  follow  readily  by  yourselves ;  but  some  of  you 
might  get  your  parents  to  read  and  explain  to  you  some 
part  of  his  Canterbury  Tales,  so  that  you  should  get  a 
feeling  of  his  charm. 

He  lived  in  the  time  of  Edward  Third,  who  was  a 
famous  fighter  against  the  French.  He  was  in  France, 
in  Edward's  army,  for  a  while,  when  he  was  young,  and 
all  his  life  he  was  much  about  the  court.  He  seems  to 
have  gone  about  observing  all  sorts  of  people,  with  eyes 
that  were  very  sharp,  but  also  very  kindly.  Even 
toward  mean  and  wicked  people  we  may  fancy  that  he 
was  thankful  for  their  furnishing  him  at  least  with  curi- 
ous specimens  for  his  collection,  and  the  noble  and 
beautiful  things  that  he  finds  in  some  men  and  women 
move  him  to  the  sweetest  notes  of  pleasure.  He  makes 
us  feel  very  nearly  related  to  all  the  variously  dressed 
people  that  he  shows  us  at  the  inn,  and  we  are  glad  to 


jog  along  toward  Canterbury  in  his  company  and 
theirs. 

Though  Chaucer's  example  set  other  men  to  try  to 
do  somewhat  as  he  did,  it  was  about  two  hundred  years 
before  another  poet  appeared  who  could  be  called  great 
in  comparison  with  him.  The  sixteenth  century  had 
come,  and  had  brought  a  wonderful  waking  up  of  the 
world.  America  had  been  discovered  near  the  end  of 
the  century  before,  and  adventurous  sailors  were  hurry- 
ing over  all  the  oceans.  Men  got  the  feeling  that  the 
earth,  after  all,  was  still  young,  and  that  more  things 
were  possible  than  they  had  yet  dreamt  of.  The  print- 
ing-press was  scattering  news  and  learning  fast  and  far. 
Eager  students  were  hunting  through  the  great  writings 
of  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  It  was  a  time  of  new  life 
and  new  hopes. 

Then  many  poets,  stirred  by  this  strong,  fresh  spirit 
of  the  time,  began  to  sing  in  England.  The  greatest  of 
them  was  Edmund  Spenser.  There  was  a  rich  music 
in  him  that  was  new  to  our  language.  We  may  believe 
that  it  filled  men's  ears  with  the  promise  that  poetry,  as 
well  as  the  unexplored  world,  would  reward  their  search 
,with  delights  that  they  could  not  foresee. 

In  Spenser's  time  and  after,  a  whole  choir  of  fresh- 
hearted  poets  were  singing  in  England.  Soon  one  rose 
among  them  who  was  far  greater  than  the  rest,  greater 
than  Spenser  or  Chaucer,  greater  than  any  who  has 
come  since,  greater,  —  most  English-speaking  people 
would  say,  —  than  any  other,  in  any  country,  since  the 
world  began.  This  was  Shakespeare.  He  began  to 


write  in  the  latter  part  of  the  reign  of  the  glorious 
Elizabeth,  and  he  went  on  in  the  time  of  her  mean  little 
successor,  James  the  First. 

To  mention  Shakespeare  is  to  remind  you  of  a  wide 
field  which  is  open  to  you  for  all  your  life,  and  where 
you  will  never  have  done  finding  things. 

His  work  is  mostly  in  the  form  of  plays,  in  which 
the  more  wonderful  passages  appear  here  and  there. 
Sometime  you  will  be  able  also  to  feel  the  strength  and 
beauty  of  a  whole  play,  taken  as  one  splendid  picture. 
He  wrote  short  poems  also,  and  he  worked  on  all  parts 
of  life, — the  inside  of  people's  hearts,  as  well  as  their 
manners  and  doings  and  surroundings. 

It  is  interesting  to  know  that  Shakespeare,  who  has 
more  to  tell,  even  to  the  wisest,  than  any  other  poet, 
was  not  at  all  a  learned  man,  hardly  a  well-educated 
one,  if  we  speak  of  study  from  books.  But  he  had  the 
magic  gift  that  showed  him  everywhere  the  poetry  of 
life,  and  taught  him  how  to  tell  it. 

Though  Shakespeare  was  so  much  greater  than  any 
of  the  men  about  him,  there  were  other  notes  than  his 
in  the  air.  Not  even  he  could  carry  another  poet's 
message,  and  so  you  have  not  one,  but  many,  profitable 
acquaintances  to  make  in  that  interesting  time.  One  of 
the  most  delightful  of  them  is  Ben  Jonson,  a  hearty 
admirer  of  Shakespeare,  more  of  a  scholar  and  more  of 
a  courtier  than  he,  singing,  like  him,  with  strength  and 
spirit,  but  in  his  own  different  and  independent  way. 

As  the  seventeenth  century  went  on,  there  was  a  loss 
of  that  fresh  sense  of  hope  and  vigour  in  poetry,  though 


something  very  like  it  is  to  be  found  here  and  there,  as, 
for  instance,  in  some  of  the  songs  of  the  gay-hearted 
followers  of  the  unhappy  King  Charles.  Disaster  sweet- 
ened their  high  spirit,  and  the  bravest  music  rose  from 
behind  their  prison  bars. 

The  greatest  poet  of  the  latter  part  of  the  century  is 
Milton.  He  was  a  Puritan,  the  stern  opposite  of  the 
Cavalier  singers,  yet  he  too  was  full  of  the  love  of 
beauty.  He  was  a  scholar,  very  familiar  with  the 
Greek  and  Latin  writers,  and  his  learning  appears  in 
his  poetry.  For,  just  as  we  have  seen  that  the  gift  of 
poetry  does  not  come  from  learning,  so  also  learning  is 
unable  to  injure  it.  The  beauty  of  Milton  is  often  of  a 
sort  that  children  are  perhaps  unlikely  to  notice,  lying 
in  a  calm  and  noble  choice  and  arrangement  of  words. 
But  some  passages  of  lighter  and  livelier  spirit  would 
certainly  reach  your  ears. 

His  greatest  poem,  Paradise  Lost,  telling  the  story 
of  Adam  and  Eve,  was  written  when  he  was  old  and 
entirely  blind.  Perhaps  his  blindness  made  him  see 
more  clearly  the  pictures  of  his  strong  and  steady 
fancy. 

In  the  next  century,  the  eighteenth,  poetry,  on  the 
whole,  lost  its  way.  Now  and  then  a  man  would  strike  a 
true  singing  note,  without  knowing  why.  But  the  poets 
were  working,  for  the  most  part,  under  the  strange 
notion  that  poetry  was  a  matter  of  knowledge  and  of 
rule.  They  had  forgotten  the  song  in  it,  and  that  song 
is  a  thing  of  the  heart,  of  enchantment.  And  they 
went  on  making  what  they  called  poetry,  some  of  it  full 


of  wit  or  fancy,  showing  great  skill,  but  only  once  in 
a  while  rising  into  true  song. 

One  might  have  thought  the  fire  had  gone  out.  But 
it  was  only  sleeping  under  the  ashes,  and  toward  the 
end  of  the  century  it  began  to  flame  again. 

Strangely  enough,  this  rekindling  of  true  poetry  in 
England  showed  first,  clearly,  in  the  writing  of  a  man 
who  was  a  sad  sufferer  from  disease  of  the  mind.  This 
was  Cowper.  His  poetry,  here  and  there  at  least, 
revives  the  charm  of  words.  Following  his  signal  note 
other  clear  voices  began  to  be  heard.  It  was  as  if  the 
birds,  dumb  through  a  long  time  of  cloudy  weather, 
were  greeting  a  brighter  sky  with  an  outburst  of 
music. 

Blake  was  one  of  these  new  singers,  and  in  some  of 
the  selections  given  in  this  book  you  may  hear  the 
magic  note,  as  fresh  as  the  morning  call  of  chanticleer. 

Robert  Burns  is  the  most  interesting  figure  of  this 
time.  He  had  even  less  learning  than  Shakespeare. 
He  was  following  the  plough  on  his  Scotch  farm  when 
his  songs  began  to  be  heard,  and  he  never  grew  out  of 
the  condition  of  a  very  poor  man.  Yet  the  wisest  men 
of  his  day,  and  ever  since,  have  acknowledged  the  great 
gift  that  we  have  received  from  his  musical  heart.  No 
one  has  given  better  proof  that  poetry  has  something 
other  than  learning  in  it,  and  since  his  time  that  lesson 
has  seldom  been  forgotten. 

Nor  has  true  poetry  ever,  since  then,  fallen  silent 
in  our  language.  In  varying  volume,  the  true  tone  has 
always  been  sounding.  The  voice  of  Burns  stopped 


just  before  the  beginning  of  this  century,  that  is  now 
nearly  done,  and  other  voices  have  kept  continuously 
in  the  air  a  music  worthy  of  the  ploughman  leader. 
These  voices  have  been  both  great  and  small,  but  they 
have  been  enough  to  show  that  the  nineteenth  century 
has  been  one  of  the  great  centuries  of  English  poetry. 
If  we  set  aside  Shakespeare,  the  greatest  poet  of  all, 
it  would  be  hard  to  show  that  any  century  has  been 
greater  than  this  last. 

You  may  feel  sure,  therefore,  that  your  century, 
the  twentieth,  will  not  fail  of  its  singing  voices.  The 
world's  age  does  not  wear  out  either  the  gift  or  the 
need  of  it. 

Some  of  you  may  be  among  the  singers.  But  those 
who  are  hearers  only,  if  they  hear  well  and  faithfully, 
will  be  doing  part'of  the  work.  For  poets  cannot  sing 
to  stupid  or  heedless  ears. 

And  this  spirit  of  poetry,  whose  charm  you  all  feel, 
here  and  there  at  least,  in  such  selections  as  these,  has 
other  ways  of  showing  itself  than  by  the  written  word. 
It  shines  often  in  the  lives  of  men  and  women  and 
children,  making  some  people's  talk  a  delight  to  hear, 
making  some  approaching  footsteps  even  sound  sweetly 
on  the  walk.  I  can  have  no  better  wish  for  you  than 
that  you  may  be  bearers  of  this  incandescent  light.  It 
will  help  you  to  read  poetry,  and  it  will  be  most  con- 
venient and  delightful  for  all  your  acquaintances. 

E.  S.  T. 


PART    FIRST 


THE    LISTENING    CHILD 

MORNING 

From  CYMBELINE 

WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

TjTARK,  HARK!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 
JS^     And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies : 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes ; 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise  ; 
Arise,  arise. 


SONG  — THE   GREENWOOD   TREE 

From  As  You  LIKE  IT 
WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

®NDER  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat  — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither : 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets  — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


QUEEN    MAB 

From  ROMEO  AND  JULIET 
WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

®THEN,  I  see,  Queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you. 
She  is  the  fairies'  midwife,  and  she  comes 
In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate  stone 
On  the  forefinger  of  an  alderman ; 
Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies 
Athwart  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep  : 
Her  wagon  spokes  made  of  long  spinner's  legs : 
The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers ; 
The  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's  web ; 
The  collars,  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams ; 
Her  whip,  of  cricket's  bone,  the  lash,  of  film ; 
Her  wagoner,  a  small  gray-coated  gnat, 
Not  half  so  big  as  a  round  little  worm, 
Pricked  from  the  lazy  finger  of  a  maid : 
Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazelnut, 
Made-by  the  joiner  squirrel,  or  old  grub, 
Time  out  of  mind  the  fair'fes'  coachmakers. 
And  in  this  state  she  gallops,  night  by  night ; 
Through  lovers'  brains,  and  then  they  dream  of  love ; 
On  courtiers'  knees,  that  dream  on  court'sies  straight ; 
O'er  lawyers'  fingers,  who  straight  dream  on  fees ; 
O'er  ladies'  lips,  who  straight  on  kisses  dream. 

5 


ARIEL'S   SONGS 

From  THE  TEMPEST 
WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE 

I 

'HERE  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I : 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie ; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry : 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly, 
After  summer  merrily. 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough ! 

ii 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands  : 
Courtsied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd, 

The  wild  waves  whist, 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 
And,  sweet  Sprites,  the  burthen  bear. 
6 


Hark,  hark ! 

Bow-wow, 
The  watch-dogs  bark : 

Bow-wow. 

Hark,  hark  !  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  cock-a-diddle-dow ! 

in 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies : 
Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange ; 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 
Hark !  now  I  hear  them,  — 
Ding,  dong,  bell. 


LULLABY    FOR   TITANIA 

From  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

FIRST  FAIRY. 

OU  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue, 

Thorny  hedgehogs,  be  not  seen ; 
Newts,  and  blind-worms,  do  no  wrong, 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 

Chorus. 

Philomel,  with  melody 

Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby ; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  ;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  ! 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm, 

Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh ! 

So  good-night,  with  lullaby. 

SECOND  FAIRY. 
Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here ; 

Hence,  you  long-legg'd  spinners,  hence ; 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near  ; 

Worm,  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 

Chorus. 

Philomel,  with  melody 

Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby ; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby ;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby ! 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm, 

Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh  ! 

So  good-night,  with  lullaby. 


SONG   OF   THE   FAIRY 

From  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM 
WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

®VER  hill,  over  dale, 
Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 
Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 
I  do  wander  everywhere, 
Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere ; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green ; 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be ; 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see; 
These  be  rubies,  fairy  favours  — 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savours. 
I  must  go  seek  some  dewdrops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 


THE  APPROACH    OF  THE   FAIRIES 

From  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM 
WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

MTOW  the  hungry  lion  roars, 

j&L     And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon  ; 

Whilst  the  heavy  ploughman  snores, 

All  with  weary  task  fordone. 
Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow, 

Whilst  the  scritch  owl,  scritching  loud, 
Puts  the  wretch  that  lies  in  woe, 

In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night 

That  the  graves,  all  gaping  wide, 
Every  one  lets  forth  his  sprite, 

In  the  churchway  paths  to  glide ; 
And  we  fairies,  that  do  run, 

By  the  triple  Hecate's  team, 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun, 

Following  darkness  like  a  dream, 
Now  are  frolic  ;  not  a  mouse 
Shall  disturb  this  hallowed  house; 
I  am  sent  with  broom  before, 
To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 

10 


Through  the  house  give  glimmering  light ; 

By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire, 
Every  elf  and  fairy  sprite, 

Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier ; 
And  this  ditty  after  me, 
Sing  and  dance  it  trippingly. 
First  rehearse  this  song  by  rote, 
To  each  word  a  warbling  note, 
Hand  in  hand,  with  fairy  grace, 
We  will  sing  and  bless  this  place. 


ii 


A   MADRIGAL 

From  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 
WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

fRABBED  age  and  youth 
Cannot  live  together : 
Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 
Age  is  full  of  care  ; 
Youth  like  summer  morn, 
Age  like  winter  weather, 
Youth  like  summer  brave, 
Age  like  winter  bare ; 
Youth  is  full  of  sport, 
Age's  breath  is  short, 
Youth  is  nimble,  Age  is  lame  ; 
Youth  is  hot  and  bold, 
Age  is  weak  and  cold, 
Youth  is  wild,  and  Age  is  tame :  — 
Age,  I  do  abhor  thee, 
Youth,  I  do  adore  thee ; 
O,  my  Love,  my  Love  is  young ! 
Age,  I  do  defy  thee  — 
O,  sweet  shepherd,  hie  thee, 
For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 


12 


WINTER 

From  LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST 
WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 
iN.       And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail  ; 
When  blood  is  nipt,  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl 

Tuwhoo  ! 

Tuwhit  !  tuwhoo  !     A  merry  note  ! 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  around  the  wind  doth  blow, 
And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw  ; 

When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl  — 

Then  nightly  sings  the*  staring  owl 
Tuwhoo  ! 

Tuwhit  !  tuwhoo  !     A  merry  note  ! 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 


MADRIGAL 

From  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 
WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

fELL  me  where  is  Fancy  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head  ? 
How  begot,  how  nourished  ? 
Reply,  reply. 

It  is  engender'd  in  the  eyes, 
With  gazing  fed  ;  and  Fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies : 
Let  us  all  ring  Fancy's  knell ; 
I'll  begin  it,  —  ding,  dong,  bell. 
—  Ding,  dong,  bell. 


WHO    IS   SYLVIA? 

From  THE  Two  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA 
WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

'HO  is  Sylvia  ?  what  is  she, 

That  all  the  swains  commend  her  ? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise,  is  she  ; 

The  heavens  such  grace  did  lend  her 
That  she  might  adored  be. 

Is  she  kind,  or  is  she  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness. 
Love  does  to  her  eyes  repair 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness  — 
And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Sylvia  let  us  sing 

That  Sylvia  is  excelling  ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling; 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 


HOW  SHOULD  I  YOUR  TRUE  LOVE  KNOW? 

From  HAMLET 
WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

should  I  your  true  love  know 
From  another  one  ? 
By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff, 
And  his  sandal  shoon. 

He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady, 

He  is  dead  and  gone, 
At  his  head  a  grass-green  turf, 

At  his  heels  a  stone. 

White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow, 

Larded  with  sweet  flowers, 
Which  bewept  to  the  grave  did  go 

With  true-love  showers. 


16 


THE   NIGHTINGALE 

From  CYNTHIA,  ETC. 
RICHARD    BARNFIELD 

AS  it  fell  upon  a  day 
In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 
Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made, 
Beasts  did  leap  and  birds  did  sing, 
Trees  did  grow  and  plants  did  spring, 
Everything  did  banish  moan 
Save  the  nightingale  alone. 
She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 
Lean'd  her  breast  against  a  thorn, 
And  there  sung  the  dolefullest  ditty 
That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 
Fie,  fie,  fie,  now  would  she  cry ; 
Tereu,  tereu,  by  and  by  : 
That  to  hear  her  so  complain 
Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain ; 
For  her  griefs  so  lively  shown 
Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 
17 


—  Ah,  thought  I,  thou  mourn'st  in  vain, 

None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain : 

Senseless  trees  they  cannot  hear  thee ; 

King  Pandion,  he  is  dead, 

All  thy  friends  are  lapp'd  in  lead : 

All  thy  fellow  birds  do  sing 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing  : 

Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee 

None  alive  will  pity  me. 


18 


QUEEN    MAB'S   VISIT   TO    PIGWIGGEN 

From  NYMPHIDIA  :  THE  COURT  OF  FAIRY 
MICHAEL    DRAYTON 

T^TER  chariot  ready  straight  is  made, 
<B[  Each  thing  therein  is  fitting  laid, 
That  she  by  nothing  might  be  staid, 

For  nought  must  be  her  letting ;  — 
Four  nimble  gnats  the  horses  were, 
Their  harnesses  of  gossamere, 
Fly  Cranion  her  charioteer, 

Upon  the  coach-box  getting. 

Her  chariot  of  a  snail's  fine  shell, 
Which  for  the  colours  did  excel ; 
The  fair  Queen  Mab  becoming  well, 

So  lively  was  the  limning : 
The  seat,  the  soft  wool  of  the  bee, 
The  cover  (gallantly  to  see) 
The  wing  of  a  pied  butterfly ; 

I  trow  'twas  simple  trimming. 

The  wheels  composed  of  crickets'  bones, 
And  daintily  made  for  the  nonce : 
For  fear  of  rattling  on  the  stones, 
With  thistle-down  they  shod  it ; 
For  all  her  maidens  much  did  fear, 
If  Oberon  had  chanced  to  hear 
19 


That  Mab,  his  queen,  should  have  been  there, 
He  would  not  have  abode  it. 

She  mounts  her  chariot  in  a  trice, 
Nor  would  she  stay  for  no  advice, 
Until  her  maids,  that  were  so  nice, 

To  wait  on  her  were  fitted, 
But  ran  herself  away  alone  ; 
Which  when  they  heard,  there  was  not  one 
But  hasted  after  to  begone, 

As  she  had  been  diswitted. 

Hop  and  Mop  and  Drab,  so  clear, 
Pip  and  Trip  and  Skip  that  were 
To  Mab,  their  sovereign,  dear, 

Her  special  maids  of  honour ; 
Fib  and  Tib  and  Pink  and  Pin, 
Tick  and  Quick  and  Jill  and  Fin, 
Tit  and  Nit  and  Wap  and  Win, 

The  train  that  wait  upon  her. 

Upon  a  grasshopper  they  got, 
And  what  with  amble  and  with  trot, 
For  hedge  or  ditch  they  spared  not, 

But  after  her  they  hie  them. 
A  cobweb  over  them  they  throw, 
To  shield  the  wind  if  it  should  blow, 
Themselves  they  wisely  could  bestow 

Lest  any  should  espy  them. 


20 


SWEET   SUFFOLK   OWL 

THOMAS    VAUTOR 

§WEET  Suffolk  owl,  so  trimly  dight 
With  feathers,  like  a  lady  bright, 
Thou  sing'st  alone,  sitting  by  night, 

Te  whit,  te  whoo  ! 
Thy  note  that  forth  so  freely  rolls, 
With  shrill  command  the  mouse  controls, 
And  sings  a  dirge  for  dying  souls, 
Te  whit,  te  whoo  ! 


21 


SPRING 

THOMAS   NASH 

§PRING,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king; 
Then  blooms  each  thing,  then  maids  dance  in  a  ring, 
Cold  doth  not  sting,  the  pretty  birds  do  sing, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pee-we,  to-witta-woo ! 

The  palm  and  May  make  country  houses  gay, 
Lambs  frisk  and  play,  the  shepherds  pipe  all  day ; 
And  we  hear  aye  birds  tune  this  merry  lay, 
Cuckoo,  jug- jug,  pee-we,  to-witta-woo  ! 

The  fields  breathe  sweet,  the  daisies  kiss  our  feet, 
Young  lovers  meet,  old  wives  a  sunning  sit, 
In  every  street  these  tunes  our  ears  do  greet, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pee-we,  to-witta-woo  ! 
Spring  !  the  sweet  Spring  ! 


22 


THE   NOBLE   NATURE 

BEN   JONSON 

)T  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 

In  bulk,  doth  make  man  better  be  ; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak  three  hundred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere ; 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night  — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauty  see ; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 


A   WISH 

From  THE  GIPSIES  METAMORPHOSED 
BEN    JONSON 

fHE  fairy  beam  upon  you, 
The  stars  to  glisten  on  you ; 
A  moon  of  light 
In  the  noon  of  night, 
Till  the  fire  drake  hath  o'ergone  you ! 
The  wheel  of  fortune  guide  you, 
The.boy  with  the  bow  beside  you 
Run  aye  in  the  way, 
Till  the  bird  of  day 
And  the  luckier  lot  betide  you  ! 
23 


CHARIS'   TRIUMPH 

From  UNDERWOODS 
BEN   JONSON 

§EE  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 
Wherein  my  Lady  rideth ! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty ; 
And  enamoured  do  wish,  so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she  would  ride. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All  that  Love's  world  compriseth  ! 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth  ! 
Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her ; 
And  from  her  arched  brows,  such  a  grace 

Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 
All  the  gain,  all  the  good  of  the  element's  strife. 

24 


Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it  ? 

Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  o'  the  snow 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it  ? 

Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  beaver  ? 
Or  swan's  down  ever  ? 

Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o'  the  brier  ? 
Or  the  nard  in  the  fire  ? 

Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 

O  so  white,  —  O  so  soft,  —  O  so  sweet  is  she ! 


AEGLAMOUR'S   LAMENT 

From  THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 
BEN  JONSON 

jyTERE  she  was  wont  to  go,  and  here,  and  here ! 

IS[    Just  where  those  daisies,  pinks,  and  violets  grow : 

The  world  may  find  the  spring  by  following  her ; 

For  other  print  her  airy  steps  ne'er  left : 

Her  treading  would  not  bend  a  blade  of  grass, 

Or  shake  the  downy  blow-ball  from  his  stalk ; 

But  like  the  soft  west-wind  she  shot  along ; 

And  where  she  went,  the  flowers  took  the  thickest  root 

As  she  had  sowed  them  with  her  odorous  foot. 


26 


HYMN   TO    DIANA 

From  CYNTHIA'S  REVELS 
BEN   JONSON 

/|D\UEEN  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 
V^J     Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep  : 

Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close : 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight 
Goddess  excellently  bright. " 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver ; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever : 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 


27 


PHYLLIS 

WILLIAM    DRUMMOND 

|N  petticoat  of  green, 

Her  hair  about  her  eyne, 
Phyllis  beneath  an  oak 
Sat 'milking  her  fair  flock  : 

'Mongst  that  sweet-strained  moisture,  rare  delight, 
Her  hand  seemed  milk,  in  milk  it  was  so  white. 


TO   PAN 

JOHN    FLETCHER 

SLL  ye  woods,  and  trees,  and  bowers, 
All  ye  virtues  and  ye  powers 
That  inhabit  in  the  lakes, 
In  the  pleasant  springs  or  brakes, 
Move  your  feet 
To  our  sound, 
Whilst  we  greet 

All  this  ground, 
With  his  honour  and  his  name 
That  defends  our  flocks  from  blame. 

He  is  great,  and  he  is  just, 
He  is  ever  good,  and  must 
Thus  be  honoured.     Daffodillies, 
Roses,  pinks,  and  loved  lilies 

Let  us  fling 

Whilst  we  sing, 

Ever  holy, 

Ever  holy, 

Ever  honoured,  ever  young: 
Thus  great  Pan  is  ever  sung. 


29 


FOLDING   THE   FLOCKS 

JOHN    FLETCHER 

§HEPHERDS  all,  and  maidens  fair, 
Fold  your  flocks  up ;  for  the  air 
'Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun 
Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 
See  the  dew-drops,  how  they  kiss 
Every  little  flower  that  is ; 
Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 
Like  a  string  of  crystal  beads. 
See  the  heavy  clouds,  low  falling, 
And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 
The  dead  night  from  underground ; 
At  whose  rising,  mists  unsound, 
Damps  and  vapours,  fly  apace, 
And  hover  o'er  the  smiling  face 
Of  these  pastures ;  where  they  come, 
Striking  dead  both  bud  and  bloom. 
Therefore  from  such  danger  lock 
Every  one  his  loved  flock ; 
And  let  your  dogs  lie  loose  without, 

Lest  the  wolf  come  as  a  scout 

I 


From  the  mountains  and,  ere  day, 

Bear  a  lamb  or  kid  away ; 

Or  the  crafty,  thievish  fox 

Break  upon  your  simple  flocks. 

To  secure  yourself  from  these, 

Be  not  too  secure  in  ease  ; 

So  shall  you  good  shepherds  prove, 

And  deserve  your  master's  love. 

Now,  good-night !     May  sweetest  slumbers 

And  soft  silence  fall  in  numbers 

On  your  eyelids.     So  farewell ; 

Thus  I  end  my  evening  knell. 


3* 


RUSTIC   SONG 

From  THE  SUN'S  DARLING 
THOMAS    DEKKER 

|p\AYMAKERS,  rakers,  reapers,  and  mowers, 
JBiJ     Wait  on  your  summer  queen  ! 
Dress  up  with  musk-rose  her  eglantine  bowers, 
Daffodils  strew  the  green  ! 
Sing,  dance,  and  play, 
'Tis  holiday ! 

The  Sun  does  bravely  shine 
On  our  ears  of  corn. 
Rich  as  a  pearl 
Comes  every  girl. 

This  is  mine,  this  is  mine,  this  is  mine. 
Let  us  die  ere  away  they  be  borne.  . 

Bow  to  our  Sun,  to  our  Queen,  and  that  fair  one 

Come  to  behold  our  sports ; 
Each  bonny  lass  here  is  counted  a  rare  one, 
As  those  in  princes'  courts. 
These  and  me, 
With  country  glee, 


Will  teach  the  woods  to  resound, 
And  the  hills  with  echoes  hollow. 
Skipping  lambs 
Their  bleating  dams 
'Mongst  kids  shall  trip  it  round ; 
For  joy  thus  our  wenches  we  follow. 

Wind,  jolly  huntsman,  your  neat  bugles  shrilly, 

Hounds  make  a  lusty  cry; 
Spring  up,  you  falconers,  partridges  freely, 
Then  let  your  brave  hawks  fly  ! 
Horses  amain, 
Over  ridge,  over  plain, 
The  dogs  have  the  stag  in  chase  : 
'Tis  a  sport  to  content  a  king. 
So  ho  !  ho  !  through  the  skies 
How  the  proud  bird  flies, 
And  sousing,  kills  with  a  grace ! 
Now  the  deer  falls  ;  hark  !  how  they  ring. 


33 


LULLABY 

From  PATIENT  GRISSEL 
THOMAS    DEKKER 

slumbers  kiss  your  eyes, 
Smiles  awake  you  when  you  rise. 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons,  do  not  cry, 
And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby  : 
Rock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby. 

Care  is  heavy,  therefore  sleep  you  ; 
You  are  care,  and  care  must  keep  you. 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons,  do  not  cry, 
And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby  : 
Rock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby. 


34 


SONG  — MORNING 

From  THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE 
THOMAS   HEYWOOD 

fACK  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day, 
With  night  we  banish  sorrow ; 
Sweet  air,  blow  soft;  mount,  lark,  aloft, 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow. 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing  ;  nightingale,  sing, 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 

Notes  from  them  all  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  redbreast, 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow  ; 
And  from  each  bill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow, 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves, 

Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow. 


35 


PRAISE   OF   CERES 

From  SILVER  AGE 
THOMAS    HEYWOOD 

WITH  fair  Ceres,  Queen  of  Grain, 
The  reaped  fields  we  roam, 
Each  country  peasant,  nymph  and  swain, 

Sing  their  harvest  home, 
Whilst  the  Queen  of  Plenty  hallows 
Growing  fields  as  well  as  fallows. 

Echo,  double  all  our  lays, 

Make  the  champians  sound 
To  the  Queen  of  Harvest's  praise, 

That  sows  and  reaps  our  ground : 
Ceres,  Queen  of  Plenty,  hallows 
Growing  fields  as  well  as  fallows. 


THE   HUNTED   SQUIRREL 

From  BRITANNIA'S  PASTORALS 
WILLIAM    BROWNE 

fHEN  as  a  nimble  squirrel  from  the  wood, 
Ranging  the  hedges  for  his  filbert-food, 
Sits  pertly  on  a  bough  his  brown  nuts  cracking, 
And  from  the  shell  the  sweet  white  kernel  taking, 
Till  with  their  crooks  and  bags  a  sort  of  boys, 
To  share  with  him,  come  with  so  great  a  noise 
That  he  is  forced  to  leave  a  nut  nigh  broke, 
And  for  his  life  leap  to  a  neighbour  oak, 
Thence  to  a  beech,  thence  to  a  row  of  ashes ; 
Whilst  through  the  quagmires  and  red  water  plashes 
The  boys  run  dabbling  through  thick  and  thin, 
One  tears  his  hose,  another  breaks  his  shin, 
This  torn  and  tatter'd,  hath  with  much  ado 
Got  by  the  briers  ;  and  that  hath  lost  his  shoe  ; 
This  drops  his  band ;  that  headlong  falls  for  haste ; 
Another  cries  behind  for  being  last ; 
With  sticks  and  stones,  and  many  a  sounding  hollow, 
The  little  fool  with  no  small  sport  they  follow, 
Whilst  he  from  tree  to  tree,  from  spray  to  spray, 
Gets  to  the  wood,  and  hides  him  in  his  dray. 


37 


THE   DESCRIPTION   OF  WALLA 

From  BRITANNIA'S  PASTORALS 
WILLIAM   BROWNE 

A  GREEN  silk  frock  her  comely  shoulders  clad, 
And  took  delight  that  such  a  seat  it  had, 
Which  at  her  middle  gathered  up  in  pleats 
A  love-knot  girdle  willing  bondage  threats. 

Down  to  her  waist  her  mantle  loose  did  fall, 
Which  Zephyr,  as  afraid,  still  played  withal ; 
About  the  edges  curious  to  behold 
A  deep  fringe  hung  of  rich  and  twisted  gold. 

Upon  her  leg  a  pair  of  buskins  white 

Studded  with  orient  pearl  and  chrysolite, 

And,  like  her  mantle,  stitch'd  with  gold  and  green, 

(Fairer  yet  never  wore  the  forest's  queen). 

A  silver  quiver  at  her  back  she  wore, 
With  darts  and  arrows  for  the  stag  and  boar; 

38 


But  in  her  eyes  she  had  such  darts  again 

Could  conquer  gods,  and  wound  the  hearts  of  men. 

Her  left  hand  held  a  knotty  Brazil  bow, 

Whose  strength  with  tears  she  made  the  red  deer  know, 

So  clad,  so  armed,  so  dressed  to  win  her  will, 

Diana  never  trod  on  Latmus  hill. 

Walla,  the  fairest  nymph  that  haunts  the  woods, 

Walla,  beloved  of  shepherds,  fauns,  and  floods, 

Walla,  for  whom  the  frolic  satyrs  pine, 

Walla,  with  whose  fine  foot  the  flowerets  twine, 

Walla,  of  whom  sweet  birds  their  ditties  move, 

Walla,  the  earth's  delight  and  Tavy's  love. 


39 


FOR   SUMMER   TIME 
From  HALLELUJAH 
GEORGE  WITHER 

TI^OW  the  glories  of  the  year 
1^<£    May  be  viewed  at  the  best, 
And  the  earth  doth  now  appear 
In  her  fairest  garments  dress'd ; 

Sweetly  smelling  plants  and  flowers 
Do  perfume  the  garden  bowers  ; 
Hill  and  valley,  wood  and  field, 
Mixed  with  pleasure  profits  yield. 

Much  is  found  where  nothing  was, 
Herds  on  every  mountain  go, 
In  the  meadows  flowery  grass 
Makes  both  milk  and  honey  flow; 
Now  each  orchard  banquets  giveth, 
Every  hedge  with  fruit  relieveth ; 
And  on  every  shrub  and  tree 
Useful  fruits  or  berries  be. 

Walks  and  ways  which  winter  marr'd 
By  the  winds  are  swept  and  dried ; 
Moorish  grounds  are  now  so  hard 
That  on  them  we  safe  may  ride ; 
40 


Warmth  enough  the  sun  doth  lend  us ; 

From  his  heat  the  shades  defend  us ; 
And  thereby  we  share  in  these 
Safety,  profit,  pleasure,  ease. 

Other  blessings,  many  more, 

At  this  time  enjoyed  may  be, 

And  in  this  my  song  therefore 

Praise  I  give,  O  Lord !  to  Thee ; 
Grant  that  this  my  free  oblation 
May  have  gracious  acceptation, 

And  that  I  may  well  employ 

Everything  which  I  enjoy. 


A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL 

GEORGE   WITHER 

§O  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast; 
Let  every  man  be  jolly, 
Each  room  with  ivy  leaves  is  drest 

And  every  post  with  holly. 
Though  some  churls  at  our  mirth  repine, 
Round  your  foreheads  garlands  twine, 
Drown  sorrow  in  a  cup  of  wine, 
And  let  us  all  be  merry. 

Now  every  lad  is  wondrous  trim, 
And  no  man  minds  his  labour ; 

Our  lasses  have  provided  them 
A  bag-pipe  and  a  tabour, 

Young  men  and  maids  and  girls  and  boys 

Give  life  to  one  another's  joys, 

And  you  anon  shall  by  their  noise 
Perceive  that  they  are  merry. 

Then  wherefore  in  these  merry  days 

Should  we,  I  pray,  be  duller  ? 
No,  let  us  sing  our  roundelays 

To  make  our  mirth  the  fuller, 
And  whilest  thus  inspired  we  sing, 
Let  all  the  streets  with  echo  ring, 
Woods  and  hills,  and  everything 
Bear  witness  we  are  merry. 
42 


SPRING 

THOMAS   CAREW 

MTOW  that  the  winter's  gone,  the  earth  hath  lost 

Jftl    Her  snow-white  robes  ;  and  now  no  more  the  frost 

Candies  the  grass  or  casts  an  icy  cream 

Upon  the  silver  lake  or  crystal  stream : 

But  the  warm  sun  thaws  the  benumbed  earth, 

And  makes  it  tender ;  gives  a  sacred  birth 

To  the  dead  swallow ;  wakes  in  hollow  tree 

The  drowsy  cuckoo  and  the  bumble-bee. 

Now  do  a  choir  of  chirping  minstrels  bring 

In  triumph  to  the  world  the  youthful  spring ! 

The  valleys,  hills,  and  woods,  in  rich  array, 

Welcome  the  coming  of  the  longed-for  May. 


41 


TO   VIOLETS 

ROBERT    HERRICK 


,  maids  of  honour, 
You  do  bring 
In  the  Spring, 
And  wait  upon  her. 

She  has  virgins  many, 

Fresh  and  fair  ; 

Yet  you  are 
More  sweet  than  any. 

Ye're  the  Maiden  Posies 

And  so  graced, 

To  be  placed 
'Fore  damask  roses. 

Yet  though  thus  respected, 

By  and  by 

Ye  do  lie, 
Poor  girls,  neglected. 


44 


TO    DAFFODILS 

ROBERT    HERRICK 

fAIR  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  his  noon : 

Stay,  stay, 
Until  the  hastening  day 

Has  run 

But  to  the  even  song  ; 
And  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you ; 

We  have  as  short  a  spring : 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 

As  you  or  anything : 
We  die, 

As  your  hours  do ;  and  dry 
Away 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain, 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning  dew, 

Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


45 


THE   BAG   OF   THE   BEE 

ROBERT   HERRICK 

BOUT  the  sweet  bag  of  a  bee 

Two  Cupids  fell  at  odds ; 
And  whose  the  pretty  prize  should  be 
They  vowed  to  ask  the  gods. 

Which  Venus  hearing,  thither  came, 
And  for  their  boldness  stript  them, 

And  taking  thence  from  each  his  flame, 
With  rods  of  myrtle  whipt  them. 

Which  done,  to  still  their  wanton  cries, 
When  quiet  grown  she'd  seen  them, 

She  kiss'd  and  wiped  their  dove-like  eyes, 
And  gave  the  bag  between  them. 


THE  SUCCESSION   OF   THE   FOUR  SWEET 
MONTHS 

ROBERT   HERRICK 

fIRST,  April,  she  with  mellow  show'rs 
Opens  the  way  for  early  flowers ; 
Then  after  her  comes  smiling  May, 
In  a  more  rich  and  sweet  array ; 
Next  enters  June,  and  brings  us  more 
Gems,  than  those  two,  that  went  before : 
Then,  lastly,  July  comes,  and  she 
More  wealth  brings  in,  than  all  those  three. 


47 


A  BALLAD   UPON   A   WEDDING 

SIR  JOHN   SUCKLING 

TELL  thee,  Dick,  where  I  have  been, 
Where  I  the  rarest  things  have  seen ; 

O,  things  without  compare  ! 
Such  sights  again  cannot  be  found 
In  any  place  on  English  ground, 

Be  it  at  wake  or  fair. 

At  Charing-cross,  hard  by  the  way, 
Where  we  (thou  know'st)  do  sell  our  hay, 

There  is  a  house  with  stairs ; 
And  there  did  I  see  coming  down 
Such  folk  as  are  not  in  our  town, 

Forty  at  least,  in  pairs. 

Amongst  the  rest,  one  pest'lent  fine 
(His  beard  no  bigger  though  than  thine) 

Walked  on  before  the  rest : 
Our  landlord  looks  like  nothing  to  him, 
The  king  (God  bless  him)  'twould  undo  him, 

Should  he  go  still  so  drest. 

But  wot  you  what  ?  the  youth  was  going 
To  make  an  end  of  all  his  wooing ; 
The  parson  for  him  stay'd  : 
48 


Yet  by  his  leave  (for  all  his  haste) 
He  did  not  so  much  wish  all  past 
Perchance  as  did  the  maid. 

The  maid  (and  thereby  hangs  a  tale) 
For  such  a  maid  no  Whitsun-ale 

Could  ever  yet  produce  : 
No  grape  that's  kindly  ripe,  could  be 
So  round,  so  plump,  so  soft  as  she, 

Nor  half  so  full  of  juice. 

Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring, 
Would  not  stay  on,  which  they  did  bring ; 

It  was  too  wide  a  peck  : 
And  to  say  truth  (for  out  it  must) 
It  looked  like  the  great  collar  (just) 

About  our  young  colt's  neck. 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  feared  the  light : 
But  O  she  dances  such  a  way ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter  day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin, 
Compar'd  to  that  was  next  her  chin 

(Some  bee'  had  stung  it  newly) ; 
But,  Dick,  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face ; 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 
49 


Just  in  the  nick  the  cook  knocked  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 

His  summons  did  obey ; 
Each  serving  man  with  dish  in  hand, 
Marched  boldly  up  like  our  trained  band, 

Presented,  and  away. 

Now  hats  fly  off,  and  youths  carouse ; 
Healths  first  go  round,  and  then  the  house, 

The  bride's  came  thick  and  thick : 
And  when  'twas  nam'd  another's  health, 
Perhaps  he  made  it  hers  by  stealth ; 

And  who  could  help  it,  Dick  ? 

On  a  sudden  up  they  rise  and  dance ; 
Then  sit  again  and  sigh,  and  glance : 

Then  dance  again  and  kiss : 
Thus  several  ways  the  time  did  pass, 
Whilst  ev'ry  woman  wished  her  place, 

And  every  man  wished  his. 


THE   GRASSHOPPER 

From  ODE  TO  MR.  C.  COTTON 
RICHARD    LOVELACE 

®H  !  thou  that  swingst  upon  the  waving  ear 
Of  some  well-filled  oaten  beard, 
Drunk  every  night  with  a  delicious  tear, 

Dropt  thee  from  heaven,  where  thou  wert  reared ; 

The  joys  of  earth  and  air  are  thine  entire, 

That  with  thy  feet  and  wings  dost  hop  and  fly, 

And,  when  thy  poppy  works,  thou  dost  retire 
To  thy  carved  acorn-bed  to  lie. 

Up  with  the  day,  the  Sun  thou  welcomest  then, 
Sport'st  in  the  gilt  plaits  of  his  beams, 

And  all  these  merry  days  mak'st  merry  men, 
Thyself,  and  melancholy  streams. 


VIRTUE 

GEORGE    HERBERT 

§WEET  Day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 

For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 

And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 

Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives ; 

But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 

Then  chiefly  lives. 


THE   THIRSTY   EARTH    SOAKS   UP   THE 
RAIN 

ABRAHAM    COWLEY 

fHE  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain, 
And  drinks,  and  gapes  for  drink  again, 
The  plants  suck  in  the  earth,  and  are 
With  constant  drinking  fresh  and  fair, 
The  sea  itself,  which  one  would  think 
Should  have  but  little  need  of  drink, 
Drinks  ten  thousand  rivers  up, 
So  fill'd  that  they  o'erflow  the  cup. 
The  busy  sun  (and  one  would  guess 
By  its  drunken  fiery  face  no  less) 
Drinks  up  the  sea,  and  when  he's  done, 
The  moon  and  stars  drink  up  the  sun. 
They  drink  and  dance  by  their  own  light, 
They  drink  and  revel  all  the  night. 


53 


THE  GRASSHOPPER 

ABRAHAM    COWLEY 

Ijw  APPY  insect !  what  can  be 
Jfft    In  happiness  compared  to  thee  ? 
Fed  with  nourishment  divine, 
The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine ! 
Nature  waits  upon  thee  still, 
And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill ; 
'Tis  fill'd  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 
Nature's  self's  thy  Ganymede. 
Thou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  and  sing, 
Happier  than  the  happiest  king ! 
All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 
All  the  plants  belong  to  thee, 
All  that  summer  hours  produce, 
Fertile  made  with  early  juice  : 
Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plough ; 
Farmer  he  and  landlord  thou ! 
Thou  dost  innocently  joy, 
Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy. 
The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 
More  harmonious  than  he. 
Thee,  country  minds  with  gladness  hear, 
Prophet  of  the  ripened  year! 
54 


Thee  Phoebus  loves  and  does  inspire ; 

Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 

To  thee  of  all  things  upon  earth, 

Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 

Happy  insect !  happy  thou, 

Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know  : 

But  when  thou'st  drunk,  and  danced,  and  sung 

Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among, 

(Voluptuous  and  wise  withal, 

Epicurean  animal) 

Sated  with  the  summer  feast 

Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 


55 


ON    MAY   MORNING 

JOHN    klLTON 

OW  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger, 

Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flow'ry  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip,  and  the  pale  primrose. 

Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  doth  inspire 

Mirth  and  youth  and  warm  desire! 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 

Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 


SONGS 

From  COMUS 
JOHN    MILTON 

A  lady,  lost  in  a  wood,  has  fallen  in  with  an  enchanter,  Comus,  who, 
by  a  spell,  has  fixed  her  in  a  chair  from  which  she  cannot  stir.  Her  two 
brothers  have  come  and  put  the  enchanter  to  flight,  but  the  spell  still  holds 
her.  A  friendly  spirit  appeals  in  her  behalf  to  the  water  nymph  Sabrina. 

SPIRIT'S  SONG  TO  SABRINA 

§ABRINA  fair, 
Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair ; 
Listen  for  dear  honour's  sake, 
Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 

Listen  and  save. 
Listen,  and  appear  to  us, 
In  name  of  great  Oceanus ; 
By  all  the  nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
Upon  thy  streams  wiih  wily  glance, 
Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head 
From  thy  coral-paven  bed, 
57 


And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave, 
Till  thou  our  summons  answered  have ; 
Listen  and  save. 

(Sabrina  rises,  attended  by  water  nymphs,  and  sings.) 

By  the  rushy-fringed  bank, 
Where  grows  the  willow  and  the  osier  dank, 

My  sliding  chariot  stays, 
Thick  set  with  agate,  and  the  azure  sheen 
Of  turkis  blue,  and  emerald  green, 

That  in  the  channel  strays ; 
Whilst  from  off  the  waters  fleet 
Thus  I  set  my  printless  feet 
O'er  the  cowslip's  velvet  head, 

That  bends  not  as  I  tread ; 
Gentle  swain,  at  thy  request 
I  am  here. 

Spirit,  — 
Goddess  dear, 

We  implore  thy  powerful  hand 
To  undo  the  charmed  band 
Of  true  virgin  here  distressed, 
Through  the  force,  and  through  the  wile, 
Of  unblest  enchanter  vile. 

Sabrina,  — 

Shepherd,  'tis  my  office  best 
To  help  ensnared  chastity  : 
Brightest  lady,  look  on  me ; 


Thus  I  sprinkle  on  thy  breast 

Drops,  that  from  my  fountain  pure 

I  have  kept,  of  precious  cure ; 

Thrice  upon  thy  finger's  tip, 

Thrice  upon  thy  rubied  lip; 

Next  this  marble  venomed  seat, 

Smeared  with  gums  of  glutinous  heat, 

I  touch  with  chaste  palms  moist  and  cold; 

Now  the  spell  hath  lost  his  hold ; 

And  I  must  haste,  ere  morning  hour, 

To  wait  in  Amphitrite's  bower. 

(Sabrina  descends,  and  the  Lady  rises  out  of  her  seat.) 


59 


WHAT   WONDROUS   LIFE   IS  THIS  I  LEAD? 

From  THOUGHTS  IN  A  GARDEN 
ANDREW    MARVELL 

'HAT  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead  ? 

Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head ; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine; 
The  nectarine  and  curious  peach 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot 
Or  at  some  fruit  tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide ; 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 


60 


THE  TRUMPET'S  LOUD  CLANGOR 

From  A  SONG  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY 

JOHN    DRYDEN 

fHE  trumpet's  loud  clangour 
Excites  us  to  arms 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double,  double,  double  beat 
Of  the  thundering  drum 
Cries,  "  Hark  !  the  foes  come ; 
Charge,  charge,  'tis  too  late  to  retreat." 

The  soft  complaining  flute 
In  dying  notes  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 
Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 

But,  oh  !  what  art  can  teach, 
What  human  voice  can  reach 
The  sacred  organ's  praise  ? 

Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 

To  mend  the  choirs  above. 


61 


ODE   ON    SOLITUDE 

ALEXANDER    POPE 

the  man  whose  wish  and  care 
A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air, 

In  his  own  ground. 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread, 

Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire, 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 

In  winter  fire. 

Blest,  who  can  unconcernedly  find 

Hours,  days,  and  years  slide  soft  away, 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 

Quiet  by  day, 

Sound  sleep  by  night ;  study  and  ease, 

Together  mixed ;  sweet  recreation ; 
And  innocence,  which  most  does  please, 

With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown, 

Thus  unlamented  let  me  die, 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 

Tell  where  I  lie. 


62 


MY   PEGGY 

From  THE  GENTLE  SHEPHERD 
ALLAN    RAMSAY 

)Y  Peggy  is  a  young  thing, 
Just  entered  in  her  teens, 
Fair  as  the  day,  and  sweet  as  May, 
Fair  as  the  day,  and  always  gay. 
My  Peggy  is  a  young  thing, 

And  I'm  not  very  auld, 
Yet  well  I  like  to  meet  her  at 
The  wauking  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  speaks  sae  sweetly, 
Whene'er  we  meet  alane, 
I  wish  nae  mair  to  lay  my  care, 
I  wish  nae  mair  of  all  that's  rare, 
My  Peggy  speaks  sae  sweetly, 

To  a'  the  lave  I'm  cauld ; 
But  she  gars  a'  my  spirits  glow 
At  wauking  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  smiles  sae  kindly, 
Whene'er  I  whisper  love, 
That  I  look  down  on  a'  the  town, 
That  I  look  down  upon  a  crown. 
63 


My  Peggy  smiles  sae  kindly, 
It  makes  me  blithe  and  bauld, 

And  naething  gi'es  me  sic  delight, 
As  wauking  of  the  f  auld. 

My  Peggy  sings  sae  saftly, 
When  on  my  pipe  I  play ; 
By  a'  the  rest  it  is  confest, 
By  a'  the  rest,  that  she  sings  best. 
My  Peggy  sings  sae  saftly, 

And  in  her  sangs  are  tauld, 
With  innocence,  the  wale  of  sense, 
At  wauking  of  the  fauld. 


TO   A  FLY 

WILLIAM    OLDYS 

§USY,  curious,  thirsty  Fly, 
Drink  with  me,  and  drink  as  I ! 
Freely  welcome  to  my  cup, 
Couldst  thou  sip,  and  sip  it  up : 
Make  the  most  of  life  you  may ! 
Life  is  short  and  wears  away. 

Both  alike  are  mine  and  thine, 
Hast'ning  quick  to  this  decline  :  — 
Thine's  a  summer :  mine's  no  more, 
Though  repeated  to  three-score  :  — 
Three-score  summers,  when  they're  gone, 
Will  appear  as  short  as  one. 


NIGHTINGALE 

JAMES    THOMSON 

®FT,  when  returning  with  her  loaded  bill, 
Th'  astonished  mother  finds  a  vacant  nest, 
By  the  hard  hand  of  unrelenting  clown 
Robb'd;  to  the  ground  the  vain  provision  falls; 
Her  pinions  ruffle,  and,  low-drooping,  scarce 
Can  bear  the  mourner  to  the  poplar  shade, 
Where,  all  abandoned  to  despair,  she  sings 
Her  sorrows  thro'  the  night ;  and  on  the  bough 
Sole-sitting,  still  at  every  dying  fall 
Takes  up  again  her  lamentable  strain 
Of  winding  woe,  till  wide  around  the  woods 
Sigh  to  her  song,  and  with  her  wail  resound. 


66 


THE   SAILOR'S   WIFE 

JEAN    ADAMS 

ND  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 
And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  of  wark  ? 
Ye  jauds,  fling  by  your  wheel. 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark, 

When  Colin's  at  the  door  ? 
Gi'e  me  my  cloak !  I'll  to  the  quay 
And  see  him  come  ashore. 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house, 

When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

Rise  up  and  mak'  a  clean  fireside; 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 
Gi'e  little  Kate  her  cotton  gown, 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat ; 
And  mak'  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes, 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw ; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he's  been  long  awa'. 

There's  twa  fat  hens  upon  the  bauk, 

Been  fed  this  month  and  mair ; 
Mak'  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about, 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare ; 
67 


And  mak'  the  table  neat  and  clean, 

Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw ; 
It's  a'  for  love  of  my  gudeman, 

For  he's  been  long  awa'. 

O  gi'e  me  down  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop  satin  gown, 
For  I  maun  tell  the  bailie's  wife 

That  Colin's  come  to  town. 
My  Sunday's  shoon  they  maun  gae  on, 

My  hose  o'  pearl  blue ; 
'Tis  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Sae  true  his  words,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 

His  breath's  like  caller  air ! 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, — 

In  troth,  I'm  like  to  greet. 

Since  Colin's  weel,  J'm  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  more  to  crave ; 
Could  I  but  live  to  mak'  him  blest, 

I'm  blest  above  the  lave. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, — 

In  troth,  I'm  like  to  greet. 
68 


THE   SHEPHERD'S   HOME 

WILLIAM    SHENSTONE 

Y  banks  they  are  furnished  with  bees, 
Whose  murmur  invites  one  to  sleep; 
My  grottos  are  shaded  with  trees, 

And  my  hills  are  white  over  with  sheep. 
I  seldom  have  met  with  a  loss, 

Such  health  do  my  fountains  bestow ; 
My  fountains  all  bordered  with  moss, 
Where  the  harebells  and  violets  blow. 

Not  a  pine  in  the  grove  is  there  seen, 

But  with  tendrils  of  woodbine  is  bound ; 
Not  a  beech's  more  beautiful  green, 

But  a  sweet-brier  entwines  it  around. 
Not  my  fields  in  the  prime  of  the  year, 

More  charms  than  my  cattle  unfold ; 
Not  a  brook  that  is  limpid  and  clear, 

But  it  glitters  with  fishes  of  gold. 

I  have  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair, 

I  have  found  where,  the  wood-pigeons  breed ; 
But  let  me  such  plunder  forbear, 

She  will  say  'twas  a  barbarous  deed ; 
For  he  ne'er  could  be  true,  she  averred, 

Who  would  rob  a  poor  bird  of  its  young ; 
And  I  loved  her  the  more  when  I  heard 

Such  tenderness  fall  from  her  tongue. 
69 


HOW  SLEEP  THE   BRAVE 

WILLIAM    COLLINS 

fg\OW  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
lift     By  all  their  country's  wishes  blessed  ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung ; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there ! 


SPRING 

From  ODE  ON  THE  PLEASURE  ARISING  FROM  VICISSITUDE 
THOMAS    GRAY 

MTOW  the  golden  morn  aloft 

JftL     Waves  her  dew-bespangled  wing, 

With  vermeil  cheek  and  whisper  soft 

She  woos  the  tardy  spring ; 
Till  April  starts,  and  calls  around 
The  sleeping  fragrance  from  the  ground, 
And  lightly  o'er  the  living  scene 
Scatters  his  freshest,  tenderest  green. 

New-born  flocks,  in  rustic  dance, 
Frisking  ply  their  feeble  feet ; 

Forgetful  of  their  wintry  trance, 
The  birds  his  presence  greet : 

But  chief,  the  sky-lark  warbles  high 

His  trembling  thrilling  ecstacy  ; 

And  lessening  from  the  dazzled  sight, 

Melts  into  air  and  liquid  light. 


THE   SCHOOLMASTER 

From  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 
OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 

§ESIDE  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There  in  his  noisy  mansion  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew : 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher,  too ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  times  and  tides  presage, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 
In  arguing  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill ; 
For  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length,  and  thund'ring  sound, 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  — 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

72 


THE   CRICKET 

WILLIAM    COWPER 

TJ  ITTLE  inmate,  full  of  mirth, 
JfiC    Chirping  on  my  kitchen  hearth, 
Wheresoe'er  be  thine  abode 
Always  harbinger  of  good, 
Pay  me  for  thy  warm  retreat 
With  a  song  more  soft  and  sweet ; 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  strain  as  J  can  give. 

Thus  thy  praise  shall  be  expressed, 
Inoffensive,  welcome  guest ! 
While  the  rat  is  on  the  scout, 
And  the  mouse  with  curious  snout, 
With  what  vermin  else  infest 
Every  dish,  and  spoil  the  best ; 
Frisking  thus  before  the  fire, 
Thou  hast  all  thy  heart's  desire. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  be 
Formed  as  if  akin  to  thee, 
Thou  surpassest,  happier  far, 
Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are ; 
Theirs  is  but  a  summer's  song  — 
Thine  endures  the  winter  long, 
Unimpaired,  and  shrill,  and  clear, 
Melody  throughout  the  year. 
73 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  AND  THE -GLOW-WORM 

WILLIAM    COWPER 

NIGHTINGALE  that  all  day  long 
Had  cheered  the  village  with  his  song, 
Nor  yet  at  eve  his  note  suspended, 
Nor  yet  when  eventide  was  ended, 
Began  to  feel,  as  well  he  might, 
The  keen  demands  of  appetite  ; 
When,  looking  eagerly  around, 
He  spied  far  off,  upon  the  ground, 
A  something  shining  in  the  dark, 
And  knew  the  Glow-worm  by  his  spark. 
So,  stooping  down  from  hawthorn  top, 
He  thought  to  put  him  in  his  crop. 
The  worm,  aware  of  his  intent, 
Harangued  him  thus,  right  eloquent : 
"  Did  you  admire  my  lamp,"  quoth  he, 
"  As  much  as  I  your  minstrelsy, 
You  would  abhor  to  do  me  wrong 
As  much  as  I  to  spoil  your  song ; 
For  'twas  the  self-same  Power  divine 
Taught  you  to  sing  and  me  to  shine, 
That  you  with  music,  I  with  light, 
Might  beautify  and  cheer  the  night." 
The  songster  heard  this  short  oration, 
And,  warbling  out  his  approbation, 
Released  him,  as  my  story  tells, 
And  found  a  supper  somewhere  else. 
74 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE 

WILLIAM    COWPER 

fOLL  for  the  brave  ! 
The  brave  that  are  no  more ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 
Fast  by  their  native  shore  ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land  breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone  ; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought, 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

75 


His  sword  was  in  its  sheath ; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down, 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes ! 

And  mingle  with  our  cup 
The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again, 
Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 

His  victories  are  o'er ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


76 


ON   A   SPANIEL   CALLED  "BEAU"  KILLING 
A   YOUNG    BIRD 

WILLIAM    COWPER 

S  SPANIEL,  Beau,  that  fares  like  you, 
Well  fed,  and  at  his  ease, 
Should  wiser  be  than  to  pursue 
Each  trifle  that  he  sees. 

But  you  have  killed  a  tiny  bird, 

Which  flew  not  till  to-day, 
Against  my  orders,  whom  you  heard 

Forbidding  you  the  prey. 

Nor  did  you  kill  that  you  might  eat, 

And  ease  a  doggish  pain, 
For  him,  though  chased  with  furious  heat, 

You  left  where  he  was  slain. 

Nor  was  he  of  the  thievish  sort, 

Or  one  whom  blood  allures, 
But  innocent  was  all  his  sport 

Whom  you  have  torn  for  yours. 
77 


My  dog  !   what  remedy  remains, 
Since,  teach  you  all  I  can, 

I  see  you,  after  all  my  pains, 
So  much  resemble  man  ? 


BEAU  S    REPLY 

Sir,  when  I  flew  to  seize  the  bird 

In  spite  of  your  command, 
A  louder  voice  than  yours  I  heard, 

And  harder  to  withstand. 

You  cried  —  "  Forbear  !  "  —  but  in  my  breast 
A  mightier  cried  —  "  Proceed  !  " 

'Twas  Nature,  sir,  whose  strong  behest 
Impell'd  me  to  the  deed. 

Yet  much  as  Nature  I  respect, 

I  ventured  once  to  break 
(As  you  perhaps  may  recollect) 

Her  precept  for  your  sake; 

And  when  your  linnet  on  a  day, 

Passing  his  prison  door, 
Had  flutter'd  all  his  strength  away, 

And  panting  pressed  the  floor ; 

Well  knowing  him  a  sacred  thing, 

Not  destined  to  my  tooth, 
I  only  kiss'd  his  ruffled  wing, 

And  lick'd  the  feathers  smooth. 
78 


Let  my  obedience  then  excuse 

My  disobedience  now, 
Nor  some  reproof  yourself  refuse 

From  your  aggrieved  Bow-wow ; 

If  killing  birds  be  such  a  crime, 
(Which  I  can  hardly  see,) 

What  think  you,  sir,  of  killing  Time 
With  verse  address'd  to  me  ? 


79 


THE   FAITHFUL   BIRD 

WILLIAM    COWPER 

fHE  Greenhouse  is  my  summer  seat; 
My  shrubs,  displaced  from  that  retreat, 
Enjoyed  the  open  air; 
Two  goldfinches,  whose  sprightly  song 
Had  been  their  mutual  solace  long, 
Lived  happy  prisoners  there. 

They  sang  as  blithe  as  finches  sing 
That  flutter  loose  on  golden  wing, 

And  frolic  where  they  list ; 
Strangers  to  liberty,  'tis  true, 
But  that  delight  they  never  knew, 

And  therefore  never  miss'd. 

But  nature  works  in  every  breast, 
With  force  not  easily  suppress'd  ; 

And  Dick  felt  some  desires, 
That  after  many  an  effort  vain, 
Instructed  him  at  last  to  gain 

A  pass  between  the  wires. 

The  opened  windows  seem'd  to  invite 
The  freeman  to  a  farewell  flight ; 
But  Tom  was  still  confin'd  ; 
80 


And  Dick,  although  his  way  was  clear, 
Was  much  too  generous  and  sincere 
To  leave  his  friend  behind. 

So,  settling  on  his  cage,  by  play, 
And  chirp,  and  kiss,  he  seem'd  to  say, 

You  must  not  live  alone  — 
Nor  would  he  quit  that  chosen  stand, 
Till  I,  with  slow  and  cautious  hand, 

Return'd  him  to  his  own. 


81 


THE   FIRST   SWALLOW 

CHARLOTTE    SMITH 

fHE  gorse  is  yellow  on  the  heath, 
The  banks  with  speedwell  flowers  are  gay, 
The  oaks  are  budding,  and,  beneath, 
The  hawthorn  soon  will  bear  the  wreath, 
The  silver  wreath,  of  May. 

The  welcome  guest  of  settled  Spring, 
The  swallow,  too,  has  come  at  last ; 
Just  at  sunset,  when  thrushes  sing, 
I  saw  her  dash  with  rapid  wing, 
And  hail'd  her  as  she  past. 

Come,  summer  visitant,  attach 

To  my  reed  roof  your  nest  of  clay, 
And  let  my  ear  your  music  catch, 
Low  twittering  underneath  the  thatch 
At  the  gray  dawn  of  day. 


82 


THE   USEFUL    PLOUGH 

ANONYMOUS 

g  COUNTRY  life  is  sweet ! 
lfSL     In  moderate  cold  and  heat, 

To  walk  in  the  air,  how  pleasant  and  fair, 
In  every  field  of  wheat, 

The  fairest  of  flowers  adorning  the  bowers, 
And  every  meadow's  brow ; 

So  that  I  say,  no  courtier  may 

Compare  with  them  who  clothe  in  gray, 
And  follow  the  useful  plough. 

They  rise  with  the  morning  lark, 
And  labour  till  almost  dark ; 

Then  folding  their  sheep,  they  hasten  to  sleep, 
While  every  pleasant  park 

Next  morning  is  ringing  with  birds  that  are  singing, 
On  each  green,  tender  bough. 

With  what  content  and  merriment 

Their  days  are  spent,  whose  minds  are  bent 
To  follow  the  useful  plough. 


ANNIE   LAURIE 

ANONYMOUS 

AXWELTON  braes  are  bonnie 

Where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
And  it's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true,  — 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true ; 
Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I'd  lay  me  down  and  dee. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw-drift, 
Her  throat  is  like  the  swan, 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on,  — 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on ; 
And  dark  blue  is  her  e'e ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
Fd  lay  me  down  and  dee. 

Like  dew  on  the  gowan  lying 
Is  the  fa'  o'  her  fairy  feet ; 
Like  the  winds  in  summer  sighing, 
Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet,  — 
Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet ; 
And  she's  a'  the  world  to  me ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I'd  lay  me  down  and  dee.-* 
84 


COMING   THROUGH  THE    RYE 

ANONYMOUS 

a  body  meet  a  body 
Comin'  through  the  rye, 
Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  a  body  cry  ? 
Every  lassie  has  her  laddie  — 

Ne'er  a  ane  ha'e  I ; 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 

When  comin'  through  the  rye. 
Amang  the  train  there  is  a  swain 

I  dearly  lo'e  mysel' ; 
But  whaur  his  hame,  or  what  his  name, 

I  dinna  care  to  tell. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comin'  frae  the  town, 
Gin  a  body  greet  a  body, 

Need  a  body  frown  ? 
Every  lassie  has  her  laddie  — 

Ne'er  a  ane  ha'e  I ; 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 

When  comin'  through  the  rye. 
Amang  the  train  there  is  a  swain 

I  dearly  lo'e  mysel' ; 
But  whaur  his  hame,  or  what  his  name, 

I  dinna  care  to  tell. 
85 


UP  IN  THE  MORNING  EARLY 

ROBERT  BURNS 

Chorus 

TjTP  in  the  morning's  no'  for  me, 
\JA.     Up  in  the  morning  early ; 
When  a'  the  hills  are  cover'd  wi'  snaw, 
I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 

Cauld  blaws  the  wind  frae  east  to  west, 

The  drift  is  driving  sairly ; 
Sae  loud  and  shrill  I  hear  the  blast, 

I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 

The  birds  sit  chittering  in  the  thorn, 

A'  day  they  fare  but  sparely ; 
And  lang's  the  night  frae  e'en  to  morn  — 
I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 

Up  in  the  morning's  no'  for  me, 

Up  in  the  morning  early; 
When  a'  the  hills  are  cover'd  wi'  snaw, 
I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 


86 


HEY,  THE  DUSTY  MILLER 

ROBERT  BURNS 

IgjvEY,  the  dusty  miller, 
Jig    And  his  dusty  coat ; 
He  will  win  a  shilling, 
Or  he  spend  a  groat 
Dusty  was  the  coat, 

Dusty  was  the  colour, 
Dusty  was  the  kiss 

That  I  got  frae  the  miller. 

Hey,  the  dusty  miller, 
And  his  dusty  sack ; 
Leeze  me  on  the  calling 
Fills  the  dusty  peck. 
Fills  the  dusty  peck, 

Brings  the  dusty  siller ; 
I  wad  gie  my  coatie 
For  the  dusty  miller. 


TIBBIE   DUNBAR 

ROBERT    BURNS 

®WILT  them  go  wi'  me, 
Sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ? 

0  wilt  thou  go  wi'  me, 
Sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ? 

Wilt  thou  ride  on  a  horse, 
Or  be  drawn  in  a  car, 

Or  walk  by  my  side, 

O  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar? 

1  care  na  thy  daddie, 

His  lands  and  his  money, 
I  care  na  thy  kindred, 

Sae  high  and  sae  lordly ; 
But  say  thou  wilt  hae  me 

For  better  for  waur  — 
And  come  in  thy  coatie, 

Sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar ! 


88 


THE   CAPTAIN'S   LADY 

ROBERT  BURNS 

Chorus 

©MOUNT  and  go, 
Mount  and  make  you  ready  ; 
O  mount  and  go, 

And  be  the  Captain's  Lady. 
When  the  drums  do  beat, 
And  the  cannons  rattle, 
Thou  shalt  sit  in  state, 

And  see  thy  love  in  battle. 

When  the  vanquish'd  foe 

Sues  for  peace  and  quiet, 
To  the  shades  we'll  go, 
And  in  love  enjoy  it. 
O  mount  and  go, 

Mount  and  make  you  ready ; 
O  mount  and  go, 

And  be  the  Captain's  Lady. 


89 


MY   HEART'S   IN   THE   HIGHLANDS 

ROBERT  BURNS 

Y  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here ; 

.    My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer ; 
A-chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe  — 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 
Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birthplace  of  valour,  the  country  of  worth : 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  forever  I  love. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  cover'd  with  snow ; 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below ; 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild  hanging  woods ; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring  floods. 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here, 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  a-chasing  the  deer; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe  — 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 


90 


JOHN   ANDERSON 

ROBERT  BURNS 

JTOHN  ANDERSON,  my  jo,  John, 
Q)    When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  beld,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither ; 
And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither ; 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go ; 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 


COCK  UP  YOUR  BEAVER 

ROBERT  BURNS 

'HEN  first  my  brave  Johnnie  lad 

Came  to  this  town, 
He  had  a  blue  bonnet 

That  wanted  a  crown  ; 
But  now  he  has  gotten 

A  hat  and  a  feather, — 
Hey,  brave  Johnnie  lad, 
Cock  up  your  beaver  ! 

Cock  up  your  beaver, 

And  cock  it  fu'  sprush, 
We'll  over  the  border 

And  gi'e  them  a  brush ; 
There's  somebody  there 

We'll  teach  better  behaviour  — 
Hey,  brave  Johnnie  lad, 

Cock  up  your  beaver !  ' 


A   RED,    RED    ROSE 

ROBERT    BURNS 

®MY  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose, 
,     That's  newly  sprung  in  June ! 
O,  my  luve's  like  the  melodie 
That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun : 

I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  awhile ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


93 


THE   WINSOME  WEE  THING 

ROBERT  BURNS 

^ HE  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
A^    She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

I  never  saw  a  fairer, 
I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer ; 
And  neist  my  heart  I'll  wear  her, 
For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

The  world's  wrack  we  share  o't, 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't ; 
Wi'  her  I'll  blythely  bear  it, 
And  think  my  lot  divine. 


94 


PHYLLIS   THE   FAIR 

ROBERT  BURNS 

'HILE  larks  with  little  wing 

Fann'd  the  pure  air, 
Tasting  the  breathing  Spring, 

Forth  I  did  fare  : 
Gay  the  sun's  golden  eye 
Peep'd  o'er  the  mountains  high ; 
Such  thy  morn  !  did  I  cry, 
Phyllis  the  fair. 

In  each  bird's  careless  song, 

Glad  I  did  share  ; 
While  yon  wild  flowers  among, 

Chance  led  me  there  : 
Sweet  to  the  opening  day, 
Rosebuds  bent  the  dewy  spray ; 
Such  thy  bloom  !  did  I  say, 

Phyllis  the  fair. 

Down  in  a  shady  walk 

Doves  cooing  were, 
I  mark'd  the  cruel  hawk, 

Caught  in  a  snare  : 
So  kind  may  fortune  be, 
Such  make  his  destiny  ! 
He  who  would  injure  thee, 

Phyllis  the  fair. 
95 


BANNOCKBURN 

ROBERT  BRUCE'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY 
ROBERT    BURNS 

§COTS,  wha  ha'e  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  victorie  ! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lower; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power  — 
Chains  and  slaverie ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  King  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Free-man  stand,  or  free-man  fa'  ? 
Let  him  on  wi'  me  ! 
96 


By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  ! 
Let  us  do,  or  die ! 


97 


CHLOE 

ROBERT  BURNS 

T  was  the  charming  month  of  May, 

When  all  the  flowers  were  fresh  and  gay, 
One  morning  by  the  break  of  day, 

The  youthful  charming  Chloe 
From  peaceful  slumbers  she  arose, 
Girt  on  her  mantle  and  her  hose, 
And  o'er  the  flowery  mead  she  goes, 
The  youthful  charming  Chloe. 
Lovely  was  she  by  the  dawn, 

Youthful  Chloe,  charming  Chloe, 
Tripping  o'er  the  pearly  lawn, 
The  youthful  charming  Chloe. 

The  feather'd  people  you  might  see, 
Perch'd  all  around,  on  every  tree, 
In  notes  of  sweetest  melody 

They  hail  the  charming  Chloe  ; 
Till  painting  gay  the  eastern  skies, 
The  glorious  sun  began  to  rise, 
Out-rivall'd  by  the  radiant  eyes 
Of  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 
Lovely  was  she  by  the  dawn, 

Youthful  Chloe,  charming  Chloe, 
Tripping  o'er  the  pearly  lawn, 
The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 
98 


THE   CHILD   AND   THE   PIPER 

WILLIAM    BLAKE 

f  I  PING  down  the  valleys  wild, 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 

And  he,  laughing,  said  to  me, 

"  Pipe  a  song  about  a  lamb." 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer; 

"  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again," 
So  I  piped,  he  wept  to  hear. 

"  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe, 
Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer." 

So  I  sang  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"  Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book  that  all  may  read." 

So  he  vanish'd  from  my  sight, 
And  I  pluck'd  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stain' d  the  water  clear, 

And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs, 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

99 


A   CRADLE   SONG 

WILLIAM    BLAKE 

§LEEP,  sleep,  beauty  bright, 
Dreaming  in  the  joys  of  night; 
Sleep,  sleep  ;  in  thy  sleep 
Little  sorrows  sit  and  weep. 

Sweet  babe,  in  thy  face 
Soft  desires  I  can  trace, 
Secret  joys  and  secret  smiles, 
Little  pretty  infant  wiles. 

As  thy  softest  limbs  I  feel, 
Smiles  as  of  the  morning  steal 
O'er  thy  cheek,  and  o'er  thy  breast, 
Where  thy  little  heart  doth  rest. 

Oh,  the  cunning  wiles  that  creep 
In  thy  little  heart  asleep  ! 
When  thy  little  heart  doth  wake, 
Then  the  dreadful  light  shall  break. 


100 


A   LAUGHING   SONG 

WILLIAM    BLAKE 

HEN  the  green  woods  laugh  with  the  voice  of  joy, 

And  the  dimpling  stream  runs  laughing  by  ; 
When  the  air  does  laugh  with  our  merry  wit, 
And  the  green  hill  laughs  with  the  noise  of  it; 

When  the  meadows  laugh  with  lively  green, 
And  the  grasshopper  laughs  in  the  merry  scene ; 
When  Mary,  and  Susan,  and  Emily, 
With  their  sweet  round  mouths  sing,  "  Ha,  ha,  he !  " 

When  the  painted  birds  laugh  in  the  shade, 
Where  our  table  with  cherries  and  nuts  is  spread : 
Come  live,  and  be  merry,  and  join  with  me 
To  sing  the  sweet  chorus  of  "  Ha,  ha,  he !  " 


lot 


THE   ECHOING   GREEN 

WILLIAM    BLAKE 

fHE  sun  does  arise 
And  make  happy  the  skies ; 
The  merry  bells  ring 
To  welcome  the  Spring  ; 
The  skylark  and  thrush, 
The  birds  of  the  bush, 
Sing  louder  around 
To  the  bells'  cheerful  sound ; 
While  our  sports  shall  be  seen 
On  the  echoing  green. 

Old  John,  with  white  hair, 
Does  laugh  away  care, 
Sitting  under  the  oak, 
Among  the  old  folk. 
They  laugh  at  our  play, 
And  soon  they  all  say, 
"  Such,  such  were  the  joys 
When  we  all  —  girls  and  boys  — 
In  our  youth-time  were  seen 
On  the  echoing  green." 

102 


Till  the  little  ones,  weary, 
No  more  can  be  merry ; 
The  sun  does  descend, 
And  our  sports  have  an  end. 
Round  the  laps  of  their  mothers 
Many  sisters  and  brothers, 
Like  birds  in  their  nest, 
Are  ready  for  rest, 
And  sport  no  more  seen 
On  the  darkening  green. 


103 


THE    LAMB 

WILLIAM    BLAKE 

T*j&  ITTLE  Lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 
UK    Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee, 
Gave  thee  life,  and  bid  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead ; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, 
Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright ; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice ; 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee  ? 

Little  Lamb,  I'll  tell  thee. 
Little  Lamb,  I'll  tell  thee. 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  he  calls  Himself  a  Lamb :  — 
He  is  meek  and  he  is  mild ; 
He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  his  name. 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  thee ; 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  thee. 


104 


NURSE'S   SONG 

WILLIAM    BLAKE 

HEN  the  voices  of  children  are  heard  on  the  green 

And  laughing  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
My  heart  is  at  rest  within  my  breast, 
And  everything  else  is  still. 

Then  come  home,  my  children,  the  sun  is  gone  down, 

And  the  dews  of  night  arise ; 
Come,  come,  leave  off  play,  and  let  us  away 

Till  the  morning  appears  in  the  skies. 

No,  no,  let  us  play,  for  it  is  yet  day, 

And  we  cannot  go  to  sleep ; 
Besides  in  the  sky  the  little  birds  fly, 

And  the  hills  are  all  covered  with  sheep. 

Well,  well,  go  and  play  till  the  light  fades  away, 

And  then  go  home  to  bed. 
The  little  ones  leap'd  and  shouted  and  laugh'd 

And  all  the  hills  echoed. 


105 


NIGHT 

WILLIAM    BLAKE 

fHE  sun  descending  in  the  west, 
The  evening  star  does  shine ; 
The  birds  are  silent  in  their  nest, 
And  I  must  seek  for  mine. 
The  moon,  like  a  flower 
In  heaven's  high  bower, 
With  silent  delight 
Sits  and  smiles  on  the  night. 

Farewell,  green  fields  and  happy  grove, 

Where  flocks  have  ta'en  delight ; 
Where  lambs  have  nibbled,  silent  move 
The  feet  of  angels  bright ; 
Unseen  they  pour  blessing, 
And  joy  without  ceasing, 
On  each  bud  and  blossom, 
And  each  sleeping  bosom. 

They  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest; 

Where  birds  are  cover'd  warm, 
They  visit  caves  of  every  beast, 
To  keep  them  all  from  harm :  — 
If  they  see  any  weeping 
That  should  have  been  sleeping 
They  pour  sleep  on  their  head, 
And  sit  down  by  their  bed. 
106 


INFANT  JOY 

WILLIAM    BLAKE 

HAVE  no  name ; 
I  am  but  two  days  old.'* 

—  What  shall  Icallthee? 
"  I  happy  am  ; 

Joy  is  my  name." 

—  Sweet  joy  befall  thee  ! 

Pretty  joy ! 

Sweet  joy,  but  two  days  old  ; 

Sweet  joy  I  call  thee  : 

Thou  dost  smile : 

I  sing  the  while, 
Sweet  joy  befall  thee ! 


107 


THE   SHEPHERD 

WILLIAM    BLAKE 

T|\OW  sweet  is  the  shepherd's  sweet  lot ! 
1?J    From  the  morn  to  the  evening  he  strays ; 
He  shall  follow  his  sheep  all  the  day, 
And  his  tongue  shall  be  filled  with  praise. 

For  he  hears  the  lambs'  innocent  call, 
And  he  hears  the  ewes'  tender  reply ; 
He  is  watchful  while  they  are  in  peace, 
For  they  know  when  their  shepherd  is  nigh. 


1 08 


AN    EPITAPH   ON   A   ROBIN    REDBREAST 

SAMUEL    ROGERS 

fREAD  lightly  here,  for  here,  'tis  said, 
When  piping  winds  are  hush'd  around, 
A  small  note  wakes  from  underground, 
Where  now  his  tiny  bones  are  laid. 
No  more  in  lone  or  leafless  groves, 
With  ruffled  wing  and  faded  breast, 
His  friendless,  homeless  spirit  roves ; 
Gone  to  the  world  where  birds  are  blest ! 
Where  never  cat  glides  o'er  the  green, 
Or  schoolboy's  giant  form  is  seen ; 
But  love,  and  joy,  and  smiling  Spring 
Inspire  their  little  souls  to  sing ! 


109 


TO   THE   CUCKOO 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

©BLITHE  new-comer  !  I  have  heard, 
I  hear  thee  and  rejoice  : 
O  cuckoo  !  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass, 

Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear ; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 

At  once  far-off  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 

Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring ! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery  ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

I  listen'd  to  ;  that  cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways, 

In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 
no 


To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 

Through  woods  and  on  the  green ; 

And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love ; 
Still  long'd  for,  never  seen  ! 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 

That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  bird  !  the  earth  we  pace, 

Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  fairy  place, 

That  is  fit  home  for  thee ! 


in 


I   WANDERED    LONELY   AS   A   CLOUD 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

|  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 

t     That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils ; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  the  bay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  :  — 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 
In  such  a  jocund  company ; 

I  gazed,  and  gazed,  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought. 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude, 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


TO   A   SKYLARK 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

®P  with  me  !  up  with  me  into  the  clouds  ! 
For  thy  song,  Lark,  is  strong ; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds ! 

Singing,  singing, 
With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing, 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind ! 

I  have  walked  through  wildernesses  dreary, 

And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary ; 

Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  Faery, 

Up  to  thee  would  I  fly. 

There  is  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 

In  that  song  of  thine ; 

Lift  me,  guide  me  high  and  high 

To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky. 

Joyous  as  morning, 
Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning ; 
Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thy  rest, 
And  though  little  troubled  with  sloth, 
Drunken  Lark !  thou  wouldst  be  loth 
"3 


To  be  such  a  traveller  as  I. 
Happy,  happy  Liver, 
With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  river 
Pouring  out  praise  to  the  Almighty  Giver 
Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both ! 

Alas  !  my  journey,  rugged  and  uneven, 

Through  prickly  moors  or  dusty  ways  must  wind ; 

But  hearing  thee,  or  others  of  thy  kind, 

As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heaven, 

I,  with  my  fate  contented,  will  plod  on, 

And  hope  for  higher  raptures,  when  life's  day  is  done. 


114 


THE   KITTEN   AND    FALLING    LEAVES 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

fHAT  way  look,  my  infant,  lo ! 
What  a  pretty  baby-show ! 
See  the  kitten  on  the  wall, 
Sporting  with  the  leaves  that  fall, 
Withered  leaves  —  one  —  two  —  and  three  - 
From  the  lofty  elder  tree  ; 
Through  the  calm  and  frosty  air 
Of  this  morning  bright  and  fair, 
Eddying  round  and  round,  they  sink 
Softly,  slowly ;  one  might  think, 
From  the  motions  that  are  made, 
Every  little  leaf  conveyed 
Sylph  or  fairy  hither  tending,  — 
To  this  lower  world  descending, 
Each  invisible  and  mute, 
In  his  wavering  parachute. 
—  But  the  Kitten,  how  she  starts, 
Crouches,  stretches,  paws  and  darts ! 
First  at  one,  and  then  its  fellow 
Just  as  light  and  just  as  yellow; 
There  are  many  now  —  now  one  — 
Now  they  stop,  and  there  are  none. 
"5 


What  intenseness  of  desire 

In  her  upward  eye  of  fire ! 

With  a  tiger-leap  half-way 

Now  she  meets  the  coming  prey, 

Lets  it  go  as  fast,  and  then 

Has  it  in  her  power  again  ; 

Now  she  works  with  three  or  four, 

Like  an  Indian  conjurer; 

Quick  as  he  in  feats  of  art, 

Far  beyond  in  joy  of  heart. 

Were  her  antics  played  in  the  eye 

Of  a  thousand  standers-by, 

Clapping  hands  with  shout  and  stare, 

What  would  little  Tabby  care 

For  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd  ? 

Over  happy  to  be  proud, 

Over  wealthy  in  the  treasure 

Of  her  own  exceeding  pleasure  ! 


116 


WRITTEN    IN    MARCH 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 

fHE  Cock  is  crowing, 
The  stream  is  flowing, 

The  small  birds  twitter, 

The  lake  doth  glitter, 
The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun ; 

The  oldest  and  youngest 

Are  at  work  with  the  strongest ; 

The  cattle  are  grazing, 

Their  heads  never  raising  ; 
There  are  forty  feeding  like  one ! 

Like  an  army  defeated 

The  snow  hath  retreated, 

And  now  doth  fare  ill 

On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill ; 
The  ploughboy  is  whooping  —  anon  —  anon 

There's  joy  in  the  mountains ; 

There's  life  in  the  fountains  ; 

Small  clouds  are  sailing, 

Blue  sky  prevailing; 
The  rain  is  over  and  gone ! 


117 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 

WVE  watch'd  you  now  a  full  half-hour, 
t    Self-poised  upon  that  yellow  flower ; 
And,  little  Butterfly  !  indeed 
I  know  not  if  you  sleep  or  feed. 
How  motionless  !  —  not  frozen  seas 
More  motionless !  and  then 
What  joy  awaits  you,  when  the  breeze 
Has  found  you  out  among  the  trees, 
And  calls  you  forth  again ! 

This  plot  of  orchard-ground  is  ours ; 

My  trees  they  are,  my  Sister's  flowers ; 

Here  rest  your  wings  when  they  are  weary ; 

Here  lodge  as  in  a  sanctuary ! 

Come  often  to  us,  fear  no  wrong ; 

Sit  near  us  on  the  bough ! 

We'll  talk  of  sunshine  and  of  song, 

And  summer  days  when  we  were  young ; 

Sweet  childish  days  that  were  as  long 

As  twenty  days  are  now. 


118 


THE   RAINBOW 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

Y  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 
A  rainbow  in  the  sky ; 

So  was  it  when  my  life  began ; 

So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man ; 

So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 
Or  let  me  die  ! 

The  child  is  father  of  the  man ; 

And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 

Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 


119 


THE  REDBREAST  CHASING  THE 
BUTTERFLY 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

tRT  thou  the  bird  whom  Man  loves  best, 
The  pious  bird  with  the  scarlet  breast, 

Our  little  English  Robin  ? 
The  bird  that  comes  about  our  doors 
When  Autumn  winds  are  sobbing  ? 
Art  thou  the  Peter  of  Norway  boors  ? 

Their  Thomas  in  Finland, 

And  Russia  far  inland  ? 
The  bird  that  by  some  name  or  other 
All  men  who  know  thee  call  their  brother : 
The  darling  of  children  and  men  ? 
Could  Father  Adam  open  his  eyes, 
And  see  this  sight  beneath  the  skies, 
He'd  wish  to  close  them  again. 
—  If  the  Butterfly  knew  but  his  friend, 
Hither  his  flight  he  would  bend ; 
And  find  his  way  to  me, 
Under  the  branches  of  the  tree : 
In  and  out  he  darts  about ; 
Can  this  be  the  bird  to  man  so  good, 

120 


That  after  their  bewildering, 

Covered  with  leaves  the  little  children, 

So  painfully  in  the  wood  ? 
What  ailed  thee,  robin,  that  thou  couldst  pursue 

A  beautiful  creature, 
That  is  gentle  by  nature  ? 
Beneath  the  Summer  sky, 
From  flower  to  flower  let  him  fly ; 
'Tis  all  that  he  wishes  to  do. 
The  cheerer,  Thou,  of  our  indoor  sadness, 
He  is  the  friend  of  our  Summer  gladness : 
What  hinders,  then,  that  ye  should  be 
Playmates  in  the  Summer  weather, 
And  fly  about  in  the  air  together  ? 
His  beautiful  wings  in  crimson  are  drest, 
A  crimson  as  bright  as  thy  own : 
Wouldst  thou  be  happy  in  thy  nest, 
Oh,  pious  bird !  whom  man  loves  best, 
Love  him,  or  leave  him  alone ! 


121 


THE   REVERY   OF   POOR   SUSAN 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 

tT    the    corner    of    Wood    Street,    when    daylight 
appears, 
Hangs  a  Thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung  for  three 

years : 

Poor  Susan  has  passed  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  Bird. 

'Tis  a  note  of  enchantment ;  what  ails  her  ?     She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees ; 
Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Lothbury  glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the  dale, 
Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripped  with  her  pail ; 
And  a  single  small  Cottage,  a  nest  like  a  dove's, 
The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves. 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven  :  but  they  fade, 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade  : 
The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will  not  rise, 
And  the  colours  have  all  passed  away  from  her  eyes. 


122 


THE  COTTAGER  TO  HER  INFANT 

DOROTHY    WORDSWORTH 

fHE  days  are  cold,  the  nights  are  long, 
The  north-wind  sings  a  doleful  song ; 
Then  hush  again  upon  my  breast ; 
All  merry  things  are  now  at  rest, 
Save  thee,  my  pretty  Love ! 

The  kitten  sleeps  upon  the  hearth~ 
The  crickets  long  have  ceased  their  mirth ; 
There's  nothing  stirring  in  the  house 
Save  one  wee,  hungry,  nibbling  mouse, 
Then  why  so  busy  thou  ? 

Nay  !  start  not  at  that  sparkling  light, 
'Tis  but  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright 
On  the  window-pane  bedropped  with  rain : 
There,  little  darling !  sleep  again, 
And  wake  when  it  is  day. 


123 


A  SUNNY  SHAFT  DID  I  BEHOLD 

SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 

H   SUNNY  shaft  did  I  behold, 
£/H       From  sky  to  earth  it  slanted  : 
And  poised  therein  a  bird  so  bold  — 
Sweet  bird,  thou  wert  enchanted ! 

He  sunk,  he  rose,  he  twinkled,  he  trolled 
Within  that  shaft  of  sunny  mist ; 

His  eyes  of  fire,  his  beak  of  gold, 
All  else  of  amethyst ! 

And  thus  he  sang  :  "  Adieu  !  adieu  ! 
Love's  dreams  prove  seldom  true. 
The  blossoms  they  make  no  delay  : 
The  sparkling  dew-drops  will  not  stay. 
Sweet  month  of  May, 
We  must  away ; 
Far,  far  away ! 
To-day!  to-day!" 


124 


HUNTING   SONG 

SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 

'P,  up  !  ye  dames  and  lasses  gay  ! 

To  the  meadows  trip  away. 
'Tis  you  must  tend  the  flocks  this  morn, 
And  scare  the  small  birds  from  the  corn. 
Not  a  soul  at  home  may  stay  : 
For  the  shepherds  must  go 
With  lance  and  bow 
To  hunt  the  wolf  in  the  woods  to-day. 

Leave  the  hearth  and  leave  the  house 
To  the  cricket  and  the  mouse  : 
Find  grannam  out  a  sunny  seat, 
With  babe  and  lambkin  at  her  feet. 
Not  a  soul  at  home  may  stay : 
For  the  shepherds  must  go 
With  lance  and  bow 
To  hunt  the  wolf  in  the  woods  to-day. 


125 


THE   CHILD    IN   THE   WILDERNESS 

SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 

Ti*  NCINCTURED  with  a  twine  of  leaves - 
IM     That  leafy  twine  his  only  dress  — 
A  lovely  Boy  was  plucking  fruits 

By  moonlight  in  a  wilderness. 
The  moon  was  bright,  the  air  was  free, 

And  fruits  and  flowers  together  grew, 
On  many  a  shrub  and  many  a  tree ; 

And  all  put  on  a  gentle  hue, 
Hanging  in  the  shadowy  air 
Like  a  picture  rich  and  rare. 
It  was  a  climate  where,  they  say, 
The  night  is  more  belov'd  than  day. 

But  who  that  beauteous  Boy  beguil'd  — 
That  beauteous  Boy  !  to  linger  here  ? 

Alone  by  night,  a  little  child, 

In  place  so  silent  and  so  wild  — 
Has  he  no  friend,  no  loving  mother  near  ? 


126 


ANSWER  TO   A   CHILD'S   QUESTION 

SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 

you  ask  what  the  birds  say?     The  Sparrow,  the 

Dove, 

The  Linnet,  and  Thrush  say,  "  I  love,  and  I  love  !  " 
In  the  winter  they're  silent,  the  wind  is  so  strong ; 
What  it  says  I  don't  know,  but  it  sings  a  loud  song. 
But    green    leaves,    and    blossoms,    and    sunny    warm 

weather, 

And  singing  and  loving  all  come  back  together. 
"  I  love,  and  I  love,"  almost  all  the  birds  say 
From  sunrise  to  star-rise,  so  gladsome  are  they ! 
But  the  lark  is  so  brimful  of  gladness  and  love, 
The  green  fields  below  him,  the  blue  sky  above, 
That  he  sings,  and  he  sings,  and  forever  sings  he, 
"  I  love  my  love,  and  my  love  loves  me." 
'Tis  no  wonder  that  he's  full  of  joy  to  the  brim, 
When  he  loves  his  Love,  and  his  Love  loves  him. 


127 


THE   INCHCAPE   ROCK 

ROBERT    SOUTHEY 

stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea, 
The  ship  was  as  still  as  she  could  be, 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion, 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock 
The  waves  flow'd  over  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  good  old  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok  . 
Had  placed  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  Rock; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  Rock  was  hid  by  the  surge's  swell, 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  Rock, 
And  blest  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay, 
All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day; 
The  sea-birds  scream'd  as  they  wheel'd  round, 
And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 
128 


The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green  ; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walk'd  his  deck, 
And  he  fix'd  his  eyes  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  Spring, 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing ; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float ; 
Quoth  he,  "  My  men,  put  out  the  boat, 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And  I'll  plague  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok." 

The  boat  is  lower'd,  the  boatmen  row, 

And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go ; 

Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 

And  he  cut  the  bell  from  the  Inchcape  float. 

Down  sunk  the  bell,  with  a  gurgling  sound, 

The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around; 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  The  next  who  comes  to  the  Rock 

Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sail'd  away 
He  scour'd  the  seas  for  many  a  day ; 
And  now  grown  rich  with  plunder'd  store, 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 

129 


So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky 
They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high ; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day, 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand, 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon, 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 

tf Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "the  breakers  roar? 
For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the  shore ; 
Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 
But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape  Bell." 

They  hear  no  sound,  the  swell  is  strong, 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift  along, 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock ; 
Cried  they,  "  It  is  the  Inchcape  Rock !  " 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair, 
He  curst  himself  in  his  despair; 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side, 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But  even  in  his  dying  fear 
One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover  hear, 
A  sound  as  if  with  the  Inchcape  Bell, 
The  fiends  below  were  ringing  his  knell. 


130 


AFTER   BLENHEIM 

ROBERT    SOUTHEY 

T  was  a  summer  evening, 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun ; 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round 

Which  he  beside  the  rivulet 
In  playing  there  had  found  ; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found 

That  was  so  large  and  smooth  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy 

Who  stood  expectant  by  ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"Who  fell  in  the  great  victory." 


"  I  find  them  in  the  garden, 
For  there's  many  hereabout ; 

And  often  when  I  go  to  plough 
The  ploughshare  turns  them  out. 

For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 

"Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 

"  Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries ; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes ; 
"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for." 

"  It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 
"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 

But  what  they  fought  each  other  for 
I  could  not  well  make  out. 

But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 

"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by ; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly ; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

"  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 
Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 
132 


And  many  a  childing  mother  then 

And  newborn  baby  died  : 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

"  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won  ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  : 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

"  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won 
And  our  good  Prince  Eugene ;  " 

"  Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing ! " 
Said  little  Wilhelmine ; 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 

"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

"  And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 
Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 

"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at,  last  ?  " 
Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

"Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 

"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 


BOAT   SONG 

From  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE 
SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances! 
Honour'd  and  bless'd  be  the  ever-green  pine ! 
Long  may  the  tree,  in  his  banner  that  glances, 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our  line ! 
Heaven  send  it  happy  dew, 
Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 
Gayly  to  bourgeon,  and  broadly  to  grow, 
While  every  Highland  glen 
Sends  our  shout  back  again, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !  " 

Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the  fountain, 

Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  winter  to  fade  ; 
When  the   whirlwind   has   stripp'd   every  leaf  on  the 

mountain, 
The  more  shall  Clan-Alpine  exult  in  her  shade. 

Moor'd  in  the  rifted  rock, 

Proof  to  the  tempest's  shock, 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it  blow ; 

Menteith  and  Breadalbane,  then, 

Echo  his  praise  agen, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe !  " 

134 


Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the  pride  of  the  Highlands! 

Stretch  to  your  oars,  for  the  ever-green  Pine ! 
O  that  the  rosebud  .that  graces  yon  islands, 

Were  wreathed  in  a  garland  around  him  to  twine ! 

O  that  some  seedling  gem, 

Worthy  such  noble  stem, 
Honour'd  and  bless'd  in  their  shadow  might  grow ! 

Loud  should  Clan-Alpine  tjien 

Ring  from  her  deepmost  glen, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  iero !  " 


'35 


JOCK   OF   HAZELDEAN 

SIR   WALTER  SCOTT 

HY  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  lady  — 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ? 
I'll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  shall  be  his  bride ; 
And  ye  shall  be  his  bride,  lady, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen  "  — 
But  ay  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 
For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

"  Now  let  this  wilful  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale ; 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington, 

And  Lord  of  Langley-dale ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen  "  — 
But  ay  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

"  A  chain  of  gold  ye  shall  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair ; 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 
Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair ; 
136 


And  you,  the  foremost  of  them  a', 

Shall  ride  our  forest  queen  " 
But  ay  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa* 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

The  kirk  was  decked  at  morning-tide  ; 

The  tapers  glimmer'd  fair ; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there ; 
They  sought  her  both  by  bower  and  ha' ; 

The  lady  was  not  seen  — 
She's  o'er  the  Border,  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


'37 


ALLEN-A-DALE 

From  ROKEBY 
SIR   WALTER    SCOTT 

tLLEN-A-DALE  has  no  fagot  for  burning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  furrow  for  turning,  • 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fleece  for  the  spinning, 
Yet  Allen-a-Dale  has  red  gold  for  the  winning. 
Come,  read  me  my  riddle !  come,  hearken  my  tale ! 
And  tell  me  the  craft  of  bold  Allen-a-Dale. 

The  Baron  of  Ravensworth  prances  in  pride, 
And  he  views  his  domains  upon  Arkindale  side ; 
The  mere  for  his  net,  and  the  land  for  his  game, 
The  chase  for  the  wild,  and  the  park  for  the  tame ; 
Yet  the  fish  of  the  lake,  and  the  deer  of  the  vale, 
Are  less  free  to  Lord  Dacre  than  Allen-a-Dale ! 

Allen-a-Dale  was  ne'er  belted  a  knight, 

Though  his  spur  be  as  sharp,  and  his  blade  be  as  bright ; 

Allen-a-Dale  is  no  baron  or  lord, 

Yet  twenty  tall  yeomen  will  draw  at  his  word, 

And  the  best  of  our  nobles  his  bonnet  will  vail, 

Who  at  Rere-cross  on  Stanmore  meets  Allen-a-Dale  ! 


Allen-a-Dale  to  his  wooing  is  come ; 

The  mother,  she  ask'd  of  his  household  and  home  ; 

"  Though  the  castle  of  Richmond  stand  fair  on  the  hill, 

My  hall,"  quoth  bold  Allen,  "  shows  gallanter  still ; 

'Tis  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  with  its  crescent  so  pale, 

And  with  all  its  bright  spangles,"  said  Allen-a-Dale. 

The  father  was  steel,  and  the  mother  was  stone ; 
They  lifted  the  latch,  and  they  bade  him  begone ; 
But  loud,  on  the  morrow,  their  wail  and  their  cry ; 
He  had  laugh'd  on  the  lass  with  his  bonny  black  eye, 
And  she  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a  love-tale, 
And  the  youth  it  was  told  by  was  Allen-a-Dale ! 


THE   LIGHTHOUSE 

SIR   WALTER    SCOTT 

fAR  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 
O'er  these  wild  shelves  my  watch  I  keep ; 
A  ruddy  gem  of  changeful  light, 
Bound  on  the  dusky  brow  of  night, 
The  seaman  bids  my  lustre  hail, 
And  scorns  to  strike  his  timorous  sail. 


140 


COUNTY   GUY 

From  QUENTIN  DURWARD 
SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

H  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea, 
The  orange  flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  trill'd  all  day, 

Sits  hush'd  his  partner  nigh ; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour, 
But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade, 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear  ; 
To  beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  cavalier. 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above, 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky ; 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know  — 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 


141 


HUNTING   SONG 

SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

'AKEN,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day, 
All  the  jolly  chase  is  here, 
With  hawk,  and  horse,  and  hunting  spear 
Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 
Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 
Merrily,  merrily,  mingle  they, 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 
Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming, 
Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming : 
And  foresters  have  busy  been, 
To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green ; 
Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay, 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away ; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size ; 
142 


We  can  show  the  marks  he  made, 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  fray'd ; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay, 
"Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay, 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay ! 

Tell  them  youth,  and  mirth,  and  glee 

Run  a  course  as  well  as  we ; 

Time,  stern  huntsman !  who  can  baulk, 

Stanch  as  hound,  and  fleet  as  hawk  ? 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay. 


'43 


LULLABY  OF  AN  INFANT  CHILD 

SIR   WALTER    SCOTT 

®HUSH  thee,  my  babie,  thy  sire  was  a  knight,  — 
Thy  mother's  a  lady  both  lovely  and  bright ; 
The  woods  and  the  glens,  from  the  towers  which  we  see 
They  all  are  belonging,  dear  babie,  to  thee. 
Oho  ro,  iri  ri,  cadul  gu  lo, 
Oho  ro,  iri  ri,  cadul  gu  lo. 

O  fear  not  the  bugle,  though  loudly  it  blows 
It  calls  but  the  warders  that  guard  thy  repose ; 
Their  bows  would  be  bended,  their  blades  would  be  red, 
Ere  the  step  of  a  foeman  draws  near  to  thy  bed. 

Oho  ro,  iri  ri,  cadul  gu  lo, 

Oho  ro,  iri  ri,  cadul  gu  lo. 

O  hush  thee,  my  babie,  the  time  soon  will  come, 
When  thy  sleep  shall  be  broken  by  trumpet  and  drum ; 
Then  hush  thee,  my  darling,  take  rest  while  you  may, 
For  strife  comes  with  manhood  and  waking  with  day. 

Oho  ro,  iri  ri,  cadul  gu  lo, 

Oho  ro,  iri  ri,  cadul  gu  lo. 


144 


PIBROCH    OF   DONALD    DHU 

SIR   WALTER    SCOTT 

fIBROCH  of  Donuil  Dhu, 
Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan  Conuil. 

Come  away,  come  away, 

Hark  to  the  summons  ! 

Come  in  your  war  array, 

Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen,  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky, 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlochy. 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one, 
Come  every  steel  blade,  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 
The  flock  without  shelter ; 

Leave  the  corpse  uninterr'd, 
The  bride  at  the  altar ; 
'45 


Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges. 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come,  when 

Forests  are  rended ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come,  when 

Navies  are  stranded : 
Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come ; 

See  how  they  gather ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume, 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set ! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 


146 


LOCHINVAR 

From  MARMION 
SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

®H,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west ; 
Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  was  the  best; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword,  he  weapons  had  none ; 
He  rode  all  unarm'd,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  stay'd  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopp'd  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none ; 

But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late  ; 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

Among  bride's-men,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers  and  all ; 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, 

(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word,) 

"  Oh  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar?" 


"  I  long  woo'd  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied  ;  — • 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide  — 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kiss'd  the  goblet :  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaff'd  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  look'd  down  to  blush,  and  she  look'd  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar,  — 
"  Now  tread  we  a  measure !  "  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace ; 
While  her  mother  did  fret  and  her  father  did  fume, 
And  the   bridegroom    stood  dangling  his   bonnet   and 

plume ; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,    "  'Twere  better  by 

far, 

To   have   match'd   our   fair  cousin  with   young  Loch- 
invar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
When  they  reach'd  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger  stood 

near; 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 

148 


1  She  is  won !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur; 
They'll   have  fleet   steeds   that   follow,"   quoth   young 
Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby 

clan; 
Fosters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they 

ran: 

There  was  racing,  and  chasing,  on  Cannobie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 


149 


BORDER  BALLAD 

From   THE  MONASTERY 
SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

ARCH,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale, 

Why  the  deil  dinna  ye  march  forward  in  order  ? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale, 

All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  bound  for  the  Border. 
Many  a  banner  spread, 
Flutters  above  your  head, 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story. 
Mount  and  make  ready  then, 
Sons  of  the  mountain  glen, 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  Scottish  glory. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  your  hirsels  are  grazing, 

Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe ; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing, 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance  and  the  bow. 

Trumpets  are  sounding, 

War-steeds  are  bounding ; 
Stand  to  your  arms,  and  march  in  good  order, 

England  shall'many  a  day 

Tell  of  the  bloody  fray, 
When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the  Border. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  FAREWELL  TO 
ENGLAND 

LORD    BYRON 

TITDIEU,  adieu!  my  native  shore 
JSL     Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue  ; 
The  night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Yon  sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea, 

We  follow  in  his  flight ; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee, 

My  Native  Land  —  Good-night. 

A  few  short  hours  and  he  will  rise 

To  give  the  morrow  birth ; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Its  hearth  is  desolate ; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall ; 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page  ! 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail  ? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billows'  rage, 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale  ? 


But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye ; 

Our  ship  is  swift  and  strong ; 
Our  fleetest  falcon  scarce  can  fly 

More  merrily  along." 

"  Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 

I  fear  not  wave  nor  wind: 
Yet  marvel  not,  Sir  Childe,  that  I 

Am  sorrowful  in  mind ; 
For  I  have  from  my  father  gone, 

A  mother  whom  I  love, 
And  have  no  friend,  save  thee  alone, 

But  thee — and  One  above. 

"  My  father  bless'd  me  fervently, 

Yet  did  not  much  complain ; 
But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 

Till  I  come  back  again."  — 
"  Enough,  enough,  my  little  lad ! 

Such  tears  become  thine  eye ; 
If  I  thy  guileless  bosom  had, 

Mine  own  would  not  be  dry." 


152 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  WATERLOO 

LORD    BYRON 

fHERE  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell ; 
But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?  —  No  ;  'twas  but  the  wind, 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 

On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfined  ; 

No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 

To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet  — 

But  hark! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 

As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 

And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before ! 

Arm  !  arm  !  —  it  is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  opening  roar ! 

Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  ;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear ; 
•      '53 


And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well, 
Which  stretch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell ; 
He  rush'd  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated ;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise ! 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips  —  "  The  foe  !  they  come  ! 
they  come ! " 


AUTUMN:   A    DIRGE 

PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY 

fHE  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wailing, 
The  bare  boughs  are  sighing,  the  pale  flowers  are 
dying, 

And  the  year 
On  the  earth  her  death-bed,  in  a  shroud  of  leaves  dead 

Is  lying. 

Come,  Months,  come  away, 
From  November  to  May, 
In  your  saddest  array ; 
Follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year, 
And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepulchre. 

The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipt  worm  is  crawling, 
The  rivers  are  swelling,  the  thunder  is  knelling 

For  the  year ; 
The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards  each  gone 

To  his  dwelling. 
Come,  Months,  come  away ; 
Put  on  white,  black,  and  gray ; 
Let  your  light  sisters  play  — 
Ye,  follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year, 

And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 

'55 


THE  WIDOW   BIRD 

PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY 

M    WIDOW  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  love 
Jil     Upon  a  wintry  bough  ; 
The  frozen  wind  crept  on  above, 
The  freezing  stream  below. 

There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  forest  bare, 

No  flower  upon  the  ground, 
And  little  motion  in  the  air 

Except  the  mill-wheel's  sound. 


156 


THE   CLOUD 

PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY 

BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers. 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves,  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits  ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ; 


Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills  and  -the  crags  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky ; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
158. 


For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams,  with  their  convex  gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


'59 


FAERY  SONG 

JOHN   KEATS 

§HED  no  tear  !  oh  shed  no  tear  ! 
The  flowers  will  bloom  another  year. 
Weep  no  more !  oh  weep  no  more ! 
Young  buds  sleep  in  the  root's  white  core. 
Dry  your  eyes  !  oh  dry  your  eyes  ! 
For  I  was  taught  in  Paradise 
To  ease  my  breast  of  melodies  — 
Shed  no  tear. 

Overhead  !  look  overhead  ! 
'Mong  the  blossoms  white  and  red  — 
Look  up,  look  up.     I  flutter  now 
On  this  flush  pomegranate  bough. 
See  me  !  'tis  this  silvery  bill 
Ever  cures  the  good  man's  ill. 
Shed  no  tear !  oh  shed  no  tear  ! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Adieu,  adieu,  —  I  fly,  adieu  ! 
I  vanish  in  the  heaven's  blue  — 

Adieu !  adieu ! 


160 


MEG   MERRILIES 

JOHN    KEATS 

®LD  Meg  she  was  a  gypsy, 
And  lived  upon  the  moors : 
Her  bed  it  was  the  brown  heath  turf, 
And  her  house  was  out  of  doors. 
Her  apples  were  swart  blackberries, 
Her  currants,  pods  o'  broom ; 
Her  wine  was  dew  of  the  wild  white  rose, 
Her  book  a  churchyard  tomb. 

Her  brothers  were  the  craggy  hills, 

Her  sisters  larchen  trees  ; 

Alone  with  her  great  family 

She  lived  as  she  did  please. 

No  breakfast  had  she  many  a  morn, 

No  dinner  many  a  noon, 

And,  'stead  of  supper,  she  would  stare 

Full  hard  against  the  moon. 

But  every  morn,  of  woodbine  fresh 
She  made  her  garlanding, 
And,  every  night,  the  dark  glen  yew 
She  wove,  and  she  would  sing. 
161 


And  with  her  fingers,  old  and  brown, 
She  plaited  mats  of  rushes, 
And  gave  them  to  the  cottagers 
She  met  among  the  bushes. 

Old  Meg  was  brave  as  Margaret  Queen, 

And  tall  as  Amazon  ; 

An  old  red  blanket  cloak  she  wore, 

A  ship-hat  had  she  on  : 

God  rest  her  aged  bones  somewhere ! 

She  died  full  long  agone ! 


SONG 

JOHN    KEATS 

HAD  a  dove,  and  the  sweet  dove  died ; 

And  I  have  thought  it  died  of  grieving : 
Oh,  what  could  it  grieve  for  ?  its  feet  were  tied 
With  a  silken  thread  of  my  own  hands'  weaving. 
Sweet  little  red  feet !  why  should  you  die  — 
Why  would  you  leave  me,  sweet  bird  !  why  ? 
You  lived  alone  in  the  forest  tree ; 
Why,  pretty  thing  !  would  you  not  live  with  me  ? 
I  kiss'd  you  oft  and  gave  you  white  peas ; 
Why  not  live  sweetly,  as  in  the  green  trees  ? 


163 


ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET 

JOHN    KEATS 

|f$HE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 
From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead. 
That  is  the  Grasshopper's  —  he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury,  —  he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun, 
He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 
On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 
Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 
The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half-lost, 
The  Grasshoppers  among  some  grassy  hills. 


164 


ROBIN    HOOD 

To  a  Friend 

JOHN    KEATS 

MTO,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more, 
Jftl   And  the  twanging  bow  no  more ; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill ; 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh, 
Where  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight,  amazed  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 

On  the  fairest  time  of  June 
You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon, 
Or  the  seven  stars  to  light  you, 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you; 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold  ; 
Never  one,  of  all  the  clan, 
Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguile 
To  fair  hostess  Merriment, 
Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent; 
For  he  left  the  merry  tale, 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale. 

Gone  the  merry  morris  din ; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamelyn. 
165 


Gone,  the  tough-belted  outlaw 

Idling  in  the  "  grene  shawe  ;." 

All  are  gone  away  and  past! 

And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 

Sudden  from  his  tufted  grave, 

And  if  Marian  should  have 

Once  again  her  forest  days, 

She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze : 

He  would  swear,  for  all  his  oaks, 

Fall'n  beneath  the  dock-yard  strokes, 

Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas ; 

She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 

Sang  not  to  her  —  strange  !  that  honey 

Can't  be  got  without  hard  money ! 

So  it  is ;  yet  let  us  sing 
Honour  to  the  old  bow-string! 
Honour  to  the  bugle-horn  ! 
Honour  to  the  woods  unshorn ! 
Honour  to  the  Lincoln  green ! 
Honour  to  the  archer  keen  ! 
Honour  to  tight  Little  John, 
And  the  horse  he  rode  upon ! 
Honour  to*  bold  Robin  Hood 
Sleeping  in  the  underwood  : 
Honour  to  Maid  Marian, 
And  to  all  the  Sherwood  clan ! 
Though  their  days  have  hurried  by, 
Let  us  two  a  burden  try. 


166 


NOVEMBER 

HARTLEY    COLERIDGE 

fHE  mellow  year  is  hasting  to  its  close; 
The  little  birds  have  almost  sung  their  last, 
Their  small  notes  twitter  in  the  dreary  blast  — 
That  shrill-piped  harbinger  of  early  snows ; 
The  patient  beauty  of  the  scentless  rose, 
Oft  with  the  moon's  hoar  crystal  quaintly  glass'd, 
Hangs,  a  pale  mourner  for  the  summer  past, 
And  makes  a  little  summer  where  it  grows : 
In  the  chill  sunbeam  of  the  faint  brief  day 
The  dusky  waters  shudder  as  they  shine, 
The  russet  leaves  obstruct  the  straggling  way 
Of  oozy  brooks,  which  no  deep  banks  define, 
And  the  gaunt  woods,  in  ragged  scant  array, 
Wrap  their  old  limbs  with  sombre  ivy  twine. 


167 


THE   PARROT  — A   TRUE   STORY 

THOMAS     CAMPBELL 

PARROT,  from  the  Spanish  main, 

Full  young  and  early  caged  came  o'er, 
With  bright  wings,  to  the  bleak  domain 
Of  Mulla's  shore. 

To  spicy  groves  where  he  had  won 
His  plumage  of  resplendent  hue, 

His  native  fruits,  and  skies,  and  sun, 
He  bade  adieu. 

For  these  he  changed  the  smoke  of  turf, 
A  heathery  land  and  misty  sky, 

And  turned  on  rocks  and  raging  surf 
His  golden  eye. 

But,  petted  in  our  climate  cold, 

He  lived  and  chattered  many  a  day : 

Until  with  age,  from  green  and  gold, 
His  wings  grew  gray. 

At  last,  when,  blind  and  seeming  dumb, 
He  scolded,  laugh'd,  and  spoke  no  more, 

A  Spanish  stranger  chanced  to  come 
To  Mulla's  shore; 

1 68 


He  hailed  the  bird  in  Spanish  speech, 
The  bird  in  Spanish  speech  replied ; 

Flapp'd  round  the  cage  with  joyous  screech, 
Dropt  down,  and  died. 


169 


POOR   DOG   TRAY 

THOMAS    CAMPBELL 

®N  the  green  banks  of  Shannon  when  Sheelah  was 
nigh, 

No  blithe  Irish  lad  was  so  happy  as  I ; 
No  harp  like  my  own  could  so  cheerily  play, 
And  wherever  I  went  was  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

When  at  last  I  was  forced  from  my  Sheelah  to  part, 
She  said,  (while  the  sorrow  was  big  at  her  heart,) 
"  Oh  !  remember  your  Sheelah  when  far,  far  away  : 
And  be  kind,  my  dear  Pat,  to  our  poor  dog  Tray." 

Poor  dog  !  he  was  faithful  and  kind  to  be  sure, 
And  he  constantly  loved  me  although  I  was  poor ; 
When  the  sour-looking  folk  sent  me  heartless  away, 
I  had  always  a  friend  in  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

When  the  road  was  so  dark,  and  the  night  was  so  cold, 
And  Pat  and  his  dog  were  grown  weary  and  old, 
How  snugly  we  slept  in  my  old  coat  of  gray, 
And  he  lick'd  me  for  kindness  —  my  old  dog  Tray. 

170 


Though  my  wallet  was  scant  I  remember'd  his  case, 
Nor  refused  my  last  crust  to  his  pitiful  face ; 
But  he  died  at  my  feet  on  a  cold  winter  day, 
And  I  play'd  a  sad  lament  for  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Where  now  shall  I  go,  poor,  forsaken,  and  blind  ? 
Can  I  find  one  to  guide  me,  so  faithful  and  kind  ? 
To  my  sweet  native  village,  so  far,  far  away, 
I  can  never  more  return  with  my  poor  dog  Tray. 


171 


GLENARA 

THOMAS    CAMPBELL 

®H,  heard  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in  the  gale, 
Where  a  band  cometh  slowly  with  weeping  and 
wail  ? 

'Tis  the  Chief  of  Glenara  laments  for  his  dear, 
And  her  sire  and  her  people  are  called  to  her  bier. 

Glenara  came  first  with  the  mourners  and  shroud ; 
Her  kinsmen  they  followed  but  mourned  not  aloud. 
Their  plaids  all  their  bosoms  were  folded  around ; 
They   marched   all   in    silence  —  they   looked    on    the 
ground. 

In  silence  they  reached,  over  mountain  and  moor, 
To  a  heath,  where  the  oak  tree  grew  lonely  and  hoar ; 
"  Now  here  let  us  place  the  gray  stone  of  her  cairn ; 
Why  speak  ye  no  word  ? "  said  Glenara  the  stern. 

"  And  tell  me,  I  charge  you,  ye  clan  of  my  spouse, 
Why  fold  ye  your  mantles,  why  cloud  ye  your  brows  ?  " 
So  spake  the  rude  chieftain  :  —  no  answer  is  made, 
But  each  mantle  unfolding  a  dagger  displayed. 

172 


'  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  shroud," 
Cried  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen  all  wrathful  and  loud : 
"  And  empty  that  shroud  and  that  coffin  did  seem ; 
Glenara  !  Glenara  !  now  read  me  my  dream !  " 

Oh  pale  grew  the  cheek  of  that  chieftain,  I  ween, 
When  the  shroud  was  unclosed  and  no  lady  was  seen ; 
When  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen  spoke  louder  in  scorn,  - 
'Twas  the  youth  who  had  loved  the  fair  Ellen  of  Lorn,  - 

"  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  grief ; 
I  dreamt  that  her  lord  was  a  barbarous  chief ; 
On  a  rock  of  the  ocean  fair  Ellen  did  seem  ; 
Glenara  !  Glenara  !  now  read  me  my  dream  !  " 

In  dust  low  the  traitor  has  knelt  to  the  ground, 
And  the  desert  revealed  where  his  lady  was  found ; 
From  a  rock  in  the  ocean  that  beauty  is  borne, — 
Now  joy  to  the  house  of  fair  Ellen  of  Lorn ! 


'73 


LORD    ULLIN'S    DAUGHTER 

THOMAS    CAMPBELL 

*M  CHIEFTAIN,  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
1/81       Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry ! 
And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 

"  Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 

This  dark  and  stormy  water  ?  " 
"Oh,  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  Isle, 

And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. 

"  And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we've  fled  together ; 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride ; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride, 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover  ?  " 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 

"  I'll  go,  my  chief  —  I'm  ready. 
It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright, 

But  for  your  winsome  lady : 
174 


"  And  by  my  word  !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry  ; 
So,  though  the  waves  are  raging  white5 

I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 
The  water-wraith  was  shrieking  ; 

And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men, 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"  O  haste  thee,  haste  !  "  the  lady  cries, 
"  Though  tempests  round  us  gather  ; 

I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 
A  stormy  sea  before  her,  — 

When,  oh  !  too  strong  for  human  hand, 
The  tempest  gather'd  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  row'd  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing  : 
Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore, 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 


For  sore  dismay'd,  through  storm  and  shade 

His  child  he  did  discover : 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretch'd  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"  Come  back  !  come  back !  "  he  cried  in  grief, 

"  Across  this  stormy  water ; 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter  !  —  oh,  my  daughter  !  " 

'Twas  vain  :  the  loud  waves  lash'd  the  shore, 

Return  or  aid  preventing  ; 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 


176 


HOHENLINDEN 

THOMAS    CAMPBELL 

®N  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle  blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills,  with  thunder  riven ; 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven ; 
And,  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 
177 


'Tis  morn ;  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank,  and  fiery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 
Wave,  Munich  !  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


178 


YE   MARINERS   OF    ENGLAND 

THOMAS    CAMPBELL 

TE  mariners  of  England, 
That  guard  our  native  seas, 
Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 
The  battle  and  the  breeze  ! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again, 
To  match  another  foe ! 
And  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 
Shall  start  from  every  wave  !  — 
For  the  deck  ft  was  their  field  of  fame, 
And  Ocean  was  their  grave : 
Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 
Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 
179 


Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below  — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ; . 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


180 


THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DAYS 

THOMAS    MOORE 

®FT,  in  the  stilly  night, 
Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me ; 
The  smiles,  the  tears, 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken ; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken ! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  link'd  together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather ; 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
181 


Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed ! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


182 


•A   CANADIAN    BOAT   SONG 

THOMAS    MOORE 

fAINTLY  as  tolls  the  evening  chime, 
Our  voices  keep  tune  and  our  oars  keep  time. 
Soon  *as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim, 
We'll  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting  hymn. 
Row,  brothers,  row !  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past ! 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ?  — 
There  is  not  a  breath  the  blue  wave  to  curl. 
But  when  the  wind  blows  off  the  shore 
Oh !  sweetly  we'll  rest  our  weary  oar. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow !  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past. 

Utawa's  tide  !  this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 
Saint  of  this  green  isle,  hear  our  prayers,  — 
Oh,  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favoring  airs ! 
Blow,  breezes,  blow !  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past ! 


183 


JENNY   KISSED    ME 

LEIGH    HUNT 

JTENNY  kissed  me  when  we  met, 
Q)    Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in ; 
Time,  you  thief !  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in. 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad, 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add  — 
Jenny  kissed  me ! 


184 


ABOU    BEN   ADHEM 

LEIGH    HUNT 

tBOU  BEN  ADHEM  (may  his  tribe  increase !) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold :  — 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  Presence  in  the  room  he  said, 

"  What  writest  thou  ?  "  —  the  vision  raised  its  head, 
And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answer'd,  "  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 
"And  is  mine  one?  "  said  Abou.     "  Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low, 
But  cheerily  still ;  and  said,  "  I  pray  thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellowmen." 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next  night 
It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  show'd  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  bless'd, 
And,  lo !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest ! 


185 


THE   GRASSHOPPER   AND   THE   CRICKET 

LEIGH   HUNT 

little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feet  of  June, 

Sole  voice  that's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon, 
When  ev'n  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass ; 
And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 

With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 

Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass ; 
O  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 
Both  have  your  sunshine  ;  both,  though  small,  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts ;  and  both  seem  given  to  earth 
To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song,  — 

Indoors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  —  Mirth  ! 


1 86 


THE   HOUSEKEEPER 

CHARLES    LAMB 

fHE  frugal  snail,  with  forecast  of  repose, 
Carries  his  house  with  him  where'er  he  goes ; 
Peeps  out,  —  and,  if  there  comes  a  shower  of  rain, 
Retreats  to  his  small  domicile  amain. 
Touch  but  a  tip  of  him,  a  horn,  'tis  well, — 
He  curls  up  in  his  sanctuary  shell. 
He's  his  own  landlord,  his  own  tenant ;  stay 
Long  as  he  will,  he  dreads  no  Quarter  Day. 
Himself  he  boards  and  lodges ;  both  invites 
And  feasts  himself ;  sleeps  with  himself  o'  nights. 
He  spares  the  upholsterer  trouble  to  procure 
Chattels  ;  himself  is  his  own  furniture, 
And  his  sole  riches.     Wheresoe'er  he  roam, 
Knock  when  you  will,  he's  sure  to  be  at  home. 


187 


THE   SKYLARK 

JAMES   HOGG 

§IRD  of  the  wilderness, 
Blithesome  and  cumberless, 
Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea ! 
Emblem  of  happiness, 
Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place  — 
Oh,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud ; 
Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth. 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 

Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day, 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 
Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away ! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms, 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place  — 
Oh,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 
1 88 


BOY'S  SONG 

JAMES    HOGG 

'HERE  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep, 

Where  the  gray  trout  lies  asleep, 
Up  the  river,  and  o'er  the  lea, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  blackbird  sings  the  latest, 
Where  the  hawthorn  blooms  the  sweetest, 
Where  the  nestings  chirp  and  flee, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  mowers  mow  the  cleanest, 
Where  the  hay  lies  thick  and  greenest ; 
There  to  trace  the  homeward  bee, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  hazel  bank  is  steepest, 
Where  the  shadow  falls  the  deepest, 
Where  the  clustering  nuts  fall  free, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Why  the  boys  should  drive  away 
Little  sweet  maidens  from  the  play, 
Or  love  to  banter  and  fight  so  well, 
That's  the  thing  I  never  could  tell. 

But  this  I  know  :  I  love  to  play, 
Through  the  meadow,  among  the  hay  ; 
Up  the  water  and  o'er'the  lea, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 
189 


CHARLIE   IS    MY    DARLING 

JAMES    HOGG 


on  a  Monday  morning, 
Right  early  in  the  year, 
That  Charlie  came  to  our  town, 
The  young  Chevalier. 

And  Charlie  he's  my  darling, 

My  darling,  my  darling, 
Charlie  he's  my  darling, 
The  young  Chevalier. 

As  Charlie  he  came  up  the  gate, 

His  face  shone  like  the  day  ; 
I  grat  to  see  the  lad  come  back 
That  had  been  lang  away. 
And  Charlie  he's  my  darling, 

My  darling,  my  darling, 
Charlie  he's  my  darling, 
The  young  Chevalier. 

And  ilka  bonnie  lassie  sang, 

As  to  the  door  she  ran, 
"  Our  king  shall  hae  his  ain  again, 
And  Charlie  is  the  man  :  " 
And  Charlie  he's  my  darling, 

My  darling,  my  darling, 
Charlie  he's  my  darling, 
The  young  Chevalier. 
190 


Out-owre  yon  moory  mountain, 

And  down  the  craigy  glen, 
Of  naething  else  our  lassies  sing 
But  Charlie  and  his  men. 

And  Charlie  he's  my  darling, 

My  darling,  my  darling, 
Charlie  he's  my  darling, 
The  young  Chevalier. 

Our  Highland  hearts  are  true  and  leal, 

And  glow  without  a  stain  ; 
Our  Highland  swords  are  metal  keen, 
And  Charlie  he's  our  ain. 
And  Charlie  he's  my  darling, 

My  darling,  my  darling, 
Charlie  he's  my  darling, 
The  young  Chevalier. 


191 


THE  THRUSH'S  NEST 

JOHN    CLARE 

ITHIN  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn  bush, 
That  overhung  a  mole-hill  large  and  round, 
I  heard  from  morn  to  morn  a  merry  thrush 
Sing  hymns  of  rapture,  while  I  drank  the  sound 
With  joy  ;  and  oft  an  unintruding  guest, 
I  watch'd  her  secret  toils  from  day  to  day, 
How  true  she  warp'd  the  moss  to  form  her  nest, 
And  modell'd  it  within  with  wood  and  clay. 
And  by  and  by,  like  heath-bells  gilt  with  dew, 
There  lay  her  shining  eggs  as  bright  as  flowers, 
Ink-spotted  over,  shells  of  green  and  blue ; 
And  there  I  witness'd,  in  the  summer  hours, 
A  brood  of  nature's  minstrels  chirp  and  fly, 
Glad  as  the  sunshine  and  the  laughing  sky. 


192 


THE   PRIEST   AND   THE    MULBERRY   TREE 

THOMAS    LOVE    PEACOCK 

^NID  you  hear  of  the  curate  who  mounted  his  mare, 

IS/   And  merrily  trotted  along  to  the  fair  ? 

Of  creature  more  tractable  none  ever  heard ; 

In  the  height  of  her  speed  she  would  stop  at  a  word ; 

But  again  with  a  word,  when  the  curate  said,  "  Hey," 

She  put  forth  her  mettle  and  gallop'd  away. 

As  near  to  the  gates  of  the  city  he  rode, 

While  the  sun  of  September  all  brilliantly  glow'd, 

The  good  priest  discover'd,  with  eyes  of  desire, 

A  mulberry  tree  in  a  hedge  of  wild  brier ; 

On  boughs  long  and  lofty,  in  many  a  green  shoot, 

Hung,  large,  black  and  glossy,  the  beautiful  fruit. 

The  curate  was  hungry  and  thirsty  to  boot ; 

He  shrunk  from  the  thorns,  though  he  long'd  for  the 

fruit ; 

With  a  word  he  arrested  his  courser's  keen  speed, 
And  he  stood  up  erect  on  the  back  of  his  steed ; 
On  the  saddle  he  stood  while  the  creature  stood  still, 
And  he  gather'd  the  fruit  till  he  took  his  good  fill. 

193 


"  Sure  never,"  he  thought,  "  was  a  creature  so  rare, 

So  docile,  so  true,  as  my  excellent  mare ; 

Lo,  here  now  I  stand,"  and  he  gazed  all  around, 

"  As  safe  and  as  steady  as  if  on  the  ground; 

Yet  how  had  it  been,  if  some  traveller  this  way, 

Had,  dreaming  no  mischief,  but  chanced  to  cry  'Hey'? " 

He  stood  with  his  head  in  the  mulberry  tree, 

And  he  spoke  out  aloud  in  his  fond  revery ; 

At  the  sound  of  the  word  the  good  mare  made  a  push, 

And  down  went  the  priest  in  the  wild-brier  bush. 

He  remember'd  too  late,  on  his  thorny  green  bed, 

Much  that  well  may  be  thought  cannot  wisely  be  said. 


194 


SONG  — FOR     THE     TENDER     BEECH     AND 
THE    SAPLING    OAK 

THOMAS    LOVE    PEACOCK 

fOR  the  tender  beech  and  the  sapling  oak, 
That  grow  by  the  shadowy  rill, 
You  may  cut  down  both  at  a  single  stroke, 
You  may  cut  down  which  you  will. 

But  this  you  must  know,  that  as  long  as  they  grow, 

Whatever  change  may  be, 
You  can  never  teach  either  oak  or  beech 

To  be  aught  but  a  greenwood  tree. 


A    WET   SHEET   AND    A   FLOWING   SEA 

ALLAN    CUNNINGHAM 

Tgf  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea  — 
l/il    A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast  — 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

Oh  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind  ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high  — 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  lads, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free ; 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  tempest  in  yori  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners  ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud  — 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free  ; 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 
196 


MY   AIN    COUNTREE 

ALLAN    CUNNINGHAM 

fHE  sun  rises  bright  in  France, 
And  fair  sets  he  ; 
But  he  has  tint  the  blythe  blink  he  had 

In  my  ain  countree. 
Oh,  gladness  comes  to  many, 

But  sorrow  comes  to  me, 
As  I  look  o'er  the  wide  ocean 
To  my  ain  countree. 

Oh,  it's  nae  my  ain  ruin 

That  saddens  aye  my  e'e, 
But  the  love  I  left  in  Galloway, 

Wi'  bonnie  bairnies  three. 
My  hamely  hearth  burnt  bonnie, 

An*  smiled  my  fair  Marie : 
I've  left  my  heart  behind  me 

In  my  ain  countree. 

The  bud  comes  back  to  summer, 

And  the  blossom  to  the  bee ; 
But  I'll  win  back  —  oh  never, 

To  my  ain  countree. 
I'm  leal  to  the  high  heaven, 

Which  will  be  leal  to  me, 
An'  there  I'll  meet  ye  a'  sune 

Frae  my  ain  countree. 
197 


THE   SEA 

BARRY    CORNWALL    (B.    W.    PROCTER) 

fHE  Sea!  the  Sea!  the  open  Sea! 
A 
The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free ! 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 
It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  'round ; 
It  plays  with  the  clouds  ;  it  mocks  the  skies ; 
Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I'm  on  the  Sea  !  I'm  on  the  Sea  ! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be ; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go ; 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 

What  matter  ?  I  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  O  !  how  I  love,  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide, 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 
And  why  the  south-west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore, 
But  I  lov'd  the  great  Sea  more  and  more, 
198 


And  backwards  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest ; 
And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is,  to  me ; 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  Sea ! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 
In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born  ; 
And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  roll'd, 
And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold ; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcom'd  to  life  the  ocean-child ! 

I've  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  summers,  a  sailor's  life, 
With  wealth  to  spend,  and  power  to  range, 
But  never  have  sought  nor  sighed  for  change; 
And  Death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me, 
Shall  come  on  the  wild,  unbounded  Sea ! 


199 


THE   OWL 

BARRY    CORNWALL    (B.    W.    PROCTER) 

N  the  hollow  tree,  in  the  gray  old  tower, 

The  spectral  owl  doth  dwell ; 
Dull,  hated,  despised  in  the  sunshine  hour, 

But  at  dusk,  —  he's  abroad  and  well : 
Not  a  bird  of  the  forest  e'er  mates  with  him ; 

All  mock  him  outright  by  day  ; 
But  at  night,  when  the  woods  grow  still  and  dim, 
The  boldest  will  shrink  away ; 

O,  when  the  night  falls,  and  roosts  the  fowl, 
Then,  then  is  the  reign  of  the  horned  owl ! 

And  the  owl  hath  a  bride  who  is  fond  and  bold, 

And  loveth  the  wood's  deep  gloom ; 
And  with  eyes  like  the  shine  of  the  moonshine  cold 

She  waiteth  her  ghastly  groom ! 
Not  a  feather  she  moves,  not  a  carol  she  sings, 

As  she  waits  in  her  tree  so  still ; 
But  when  her  heart  heareth  his  flapping  wings, 

She  hoots  out  her  welcome  shrill ! 

O,  when  the  moon  shines,  and  the  dogs  do  howl, 
Then,  then  is  the  cry  of  the  horned  owl ! 

200 


Mourn  not  for  the  owl  nor  his  gloomy  plight ! 

The  owl  hath  his  share  of  good : 
If  a  prisoner  he  be  in  the  broad  daylight, 

He  is  lord  in  the  dark  green  wood ! 
Nor  lonely  the  bird,  nor  his  ghastly  mate  ; 

They  are  each  unto  each  a  pride  — 
Thrice  fonder,  perhaps,  since  a  strange,  dark  fate 

Hath  rent  them  from  all  beside  ! 

So  when  the  night  falls,  and  dogs  do  howl, 
Sing  Ho  !  for  the  reign  of  the  horned  owl ! 
We  know  not  alway  who  are  kings  by  day, 

But  the  king  of  the  night  is  the  bold  brown  owl. 


201 


I    REMEMBER,    I    REMEMBER 

THOMAS   HOOD 

REMEMBER,  I  remember 
The  house  where  I  was  born, 

The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn ; 

He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day, 

But  now  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  roses  red  and  white, 
The  violets  and  the  lily-cups, 
Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 
And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday,  — 
The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing ; 

202 


My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 
That  is  so  heavy  now, 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 
The  fever  on  my  brow ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir  trees  dark  and  high ; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky : 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 

To  know  I'm  further  off  from  Heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


203 


SONG 

THOMAS    HOOD 

M     LAKE  and  a  fairy  boat 
Jfil    To  sail  in  the  moonlight  clear,  — 
And  merrily  we  would  float 
From  the  dragons  that  watch  us  here ! 

Thy  gown  should  be  snow-white  silk, 
And  strings  of  orient  pearls, 
Like  gossamers  dipped  in  milk, 
Should  twine  with  thy  raven  curls ! 

Red  rubies  should  deck  thy  hands, 
And  diamonds  should  be  thy  dower  — 
But  fairies  have  broke  their  wands 
And  wishing  has  lost  its  power ! 


204 


RORY   O'MORE 

SAMUEL    LOVER 

TOUNG  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn ; 
He  was  bold  as  a  hawk,  — she  as  soft  as  the  dawn  ; 
He  wished  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please, 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to  tease. 
"Now,  Rory,  be  aisy,"  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry, 
(Reproof  on  her  lip  but  a  smile  in  her  eye,) 
"  With  your  tricks  I  don't  know,  in  troth,  what  I'm  about, 
Faith  you've  teased  till  I've  put  on  my  cloak  inside  out." 
"Oh,  jewel,"  says  Rory,  "that  same  is  the  way 
You've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a  day ; 
And  'tis  plas'd  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure  ? 
For  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"  Indeed,  then,"  says  Kathleen,  "  don't  think  of  the  like, 
For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  sootJiering  Mike ; 
The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I'll  be  bound." 
"  Faith,"   says   Rory,   "  I'd    rather   love  you   than   the 

ground." 

"  Now,  Rory,  I'll  cry  if  you  don't  let  me  go; 
Sure  I  drame  ev'ry  night  that  I'm  hating  you  so  ! " 
"Oh,"  says  Rory,  "that  same  I'm  delighted  to  hear, 
For  drames  always  go  by  conthraries,  rny  dear ; 

205 


Oh,  jewel,  keep  draming  that  same  till  you  die, 
And  bright  morning  will  give  dirty  night  the  black  lie ! 
And  'tis  plas'd  that  I  am,  and  why  not  to  be  sure  ? 
Since  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"  Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you've  teased  me  enough, 
Sure  I've  thrash'd,  for  your  sake,  Dinney  Grimes  and 

Jim  Duff ; 
And  I've  made  myself,  drinking  your  health,  quite  a 

baste, 

So  I  think  after  that  I  may  talk  to  the  priest." 
Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her  neck, 
So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck, 
And  he  look'd  in  her  eyes  that  were  beaming  with  light, 
And  he  kiss'd  her  sweet  lips ;  —  don't  you  think  he  was 

right  ? 

"  Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir ;  you'll  hug  me  no  more, 
That's  eight  times  to-day  you  have  kissed  me  before." 
"  Then  here  goes  another,"  says  he,  "to  make  sure; 
For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers,"  says  Rory  O'More. 


206 


BABY   DEAR 

CRADLE  SONG  OF  THE  BUCCANEER'S  WIFE 
SAMUEL    LOVER 

N  thy  hammock  gently  sleeping, 

Dearest  baby,  have  no  fear ; 
While  thy  mother  watch  is  keeping 
Danger  never  can  come  near. 
I  am  here, 
Baby  dear, 
Mother's  eyes 
Watch  her  prize ; 
Pois'nous  wing 
Nor  noisome  sting 
Shall  harm  thy  sleep, 
Tho'  I  may  weep, 
Weep  for  one  that's  far  from  me 
Far  across  the  stormy  sea. 
Let  me  dash  the  tear  away  !  — 
Better  far  to  hope  and  pray ; 
Oh,  solace  rare ! 

A  tear  may  mingle  with  a  pray'r, 
A  pray'r  for  thee,  my  baby  dear, 
And  one,  alas  !  that  is  not  here.  — 

Baby  dear,  baby  dear, 
In  thy  hammock  calmly  swinging, 
Gently  is  thy  mother  singing 

Lullaby  to  thee. 
207 


THE   ANGELS'    WHISPER 

SAMUEL    LOVER 

tBABY  was  sleeping ; 
Its  mother  was  weeping, 

For  her  husband  was  far  on  the  wild  raging  sea ; 
And  the  tempest  was  swelling 
Round  the  fisherman's  dwelling  ; 

And  she  cried,    "  Dermot,   darling,    oh   come   back  to 
me!" 

Her  beads  while  she  numbered, 

The  baby  still  slumbered, 
And  smiled  in  her  face  as  she  bended  her  knee : 

"  Oh,  blest  be  that  warning, 

My  child,  thy  sleep  adorning, 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee. 

"  And  while  they  are  keeping 

Bright  watch  o'er  thy  sleeping, 
Oh,  pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me ! 

And  say  tho,u  wouldst  rather 

They'd  watch  o'er  thy  father, 

For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  to  thee." 

208 


The  dawn  of  the  morning 

Saw  Dermot  returning, 
And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe's  father  to  see ; 

And  closely  caressing 

Her  child  with  a  blessing, 

Said,  "  I  knew  that  the  angels  were  whispering  with 
thee." 


209 


THE   LOW-BACKED   CAR 

SAMUEL  LOVER 

'HEN  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy, 

'Twas  on  a  market  day  ; 
A  low-back'd  car  she  drove,  and  sat 

Upon  a  truss  of  hay ; 
But  when  that  hay  was  blooming  grass, 

And  decked  with  flowers  of  spring, 
No  flower  was  there  that  could  compare 

With  the  blooming  girl  I  sing. 
As  she  sat  in  the  low-back'd  car, 
The  man  at  the  turnpike  bar 
Never  asked  for  the  toll, 
But  just  rubbed  his  owld  poll, 
And  look'd  after  the  low-back'd  car. 

Sweet  Peggy  round  her  car,  sir, 

Has  strings  of  ducks  and  geese, 
But  the  scores  of  hearts  she  slaughters, 

By  far  outnumbers  these ; 
While  she  among  her  poultry  sits, 

Just  like  a  turtle-dove, 
Well  worth  the  cage,  I  do  engage, 

Of  the  blooming  god  of  love ; 


While  she  sits  in  her  low-back'd  car, 
The  lovers  come  near  and  far, 

And  envy  the  chicken 

That  Peggy  is  pickin', 
As  she  sits  in  her  low-back'd  car. 

Oh,  I'd  rather  own  that  car,  sir, 

With  Peggy  by  my  side, 
Than  a  coach  and  four,  and  gold  galore, 

And  a  lady  for  my  bride  ; 
For  the  lady  would  sit  forninst  me, 

On  a  cushion  made  with  taste, 
While  Peggy  would  sit  beside  me, 

With  my  arm  around  her  waist, 
While  we  drove  in  the  low-back'd  car, 
To  be  married  by  Father  Maher ; 
Oh,  my  heart  would  beat  high, 
At  her  glance  or  her  sigh, 
Though  it  beat  in  a  low-back'd  car. 


211 


IVRY 

A   SONG  OF  THE   HUGUENOTS 
LORD    MACAULAY  (THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY) 

OW  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all 
glories  are ! 

And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Liege,  King  Henry  of  Na- 
varre ! 

Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  of  dance, 

Through  thy  cornfields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  O 
pleasant  land  of  France  !  . 

And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  City  of 
the  Waters, 

Again  let  rapture  light -the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning 
daughters. 

As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy, 

For  cold,  and  stiff,  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy 
walls  annoy. 

Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance 
of  war, 

Hurrah !     Hurrah  !  for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

212 


0,  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn  of 

day, 
We  saw  the  army  of  the   League  drawn  out  in  long 

array ; 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 
And  Appenzel's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish 

spears. 
There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of 

our  land ; 
And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon  in  his 

hand; 
And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought   of    Seine's 

empurpled  flood, 
And  good  Coligni's   hoary  hair  all  dabbled   with    his 

blood ; 
And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate- of 

'war, 
To  fight  for  His  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  king  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armor  drest, 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant 

crest. 
He   looked    upon    his    people,   and   a  tear  was   in  his 

eye; 
He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern 

and  high. 
Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing 

to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout,  "  God  save  our 

lord  the  King!'' 

213 


"  And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he 

may, 

For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray, 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine  amidst  the 

ranks  of  war, 
And  be  your  oriflamme  to-day  the  helmet  of  Navarre." 

Hurrah !  the  foes  are  moving.  Hark  to  the  mingled 
din 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring 
culverin. 

The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andrews 
plain, 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 

Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of 
France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies,  —  upon  them  with  the 
lance. 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears 
in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow- 
white  crest; 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a 
guiding  star, 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Na- 
varre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours.     Mayenne  hath 

turned  his  rein. 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter.     The  Flemish  Count 

is  slain. 

214 


Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a 
Biscay  gale ; 

The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and 
cloven  mail. 

And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and,  all  along  our 
van, 

"  Remember  Saint  Bartholomew ! "  was  passed  from 
man  to  man. 

But  out  spake  gentle  Henry,  "  No  Frenchman  is  my  foe : 

Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your  breth- 
ren go." 

O,  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in  war, 

As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of  Na- 
varre ? 

Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who  fought  for 

France  to-day, 

And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them  for  a  prey. 
But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in  fight ; 
And  the  good  Lord  of  Rosny  has  ta'en  the  cornet  white, 
Oar  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white  hath  ta'en, 
The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the  flag  of  false 

Lorraine. 
Up  with  it  high ;  unfurl  it  wide ;  that  all  the  host  may 

know 
How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house  which  wrought 

His  Church  such  woe. 
Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound  their  loudest 

point  of  war, 
Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  footcloth  meet  for  Henry  of 

Navarre. 

2*5 


THE   OLD   SCOTTISH    CAVALIER 

WILLIAM    EDMONDSTOUNE    AYTOUN 

fOME  listen  to  another  song, 
Should  make  your  heart  beat  high, 
Bring  crimson  to  your  forehead, 
And  the  lustre  to  your  eye ;  — 
It  is  a  song  of  olden  time, 

Of  days  long  since  gone  by, 
And  of  a  baron  stout  and  bold 
As  e'er  wore  sword  on  thigh ! 

Like  a  brave  old  Scottish  cavalier, 
All  of  the  olden  time ! 

He  kept  his  castle  in  the  north, 

Hard  by  the  thundering  Spey ; 
And  a  thousand  vassals  dwelt  around, 

All  of  his  kindred  they. 
And  not  a  man  of  all  that  clan 

Had  ever  ceased  to  pray 
For  the  Royal  race  they  loved  so  well, 
Though  exiled  far  away 

From  the  steadfast  Scottish  cavaliers, 
All  of  the  olden  time  ! 
216 


His  father  drew  the  righteous  sword 

For  Scotland  and  her  claims, 
Among  the  loyal  gentlemen 

And  chiefs  of  ancient  names, 
Who  swore  to  fight  or  fall  beneath 

The  standard  of  King  James, 
And  died  at  Killiecrankie  Pass, 

With  the  glory  of  the  Graemes ; 
Like  a  true  old  Scottish  cavalier, 
All  of  the  olden  time ! 


He  never  owned  the  foreign  rule, 

No  master  he  obeyed, 
But  kept  his  clan  in  peace  at  home, 

From  foray  and  from  raid ; 
And  when  they  asked  him  for  his  oath, 

He  touched  his  glittering  blade, 
And  pointed  to  his  bonnet  blue, 

That  bore  the  white  cockade : 
Like  a  leal  old  Scottish  cavalier, 
All  of  the  olden  time! 


At  length  the  news  ran  through  the  land, 

The  Prince  had  come  again  ! 
That  night  the  fiery  cross  was  sped 

O'er  mountain  and  through  glen ; 
And  our  old  baron  rose  in  might, 

Like  a  lion  from  his  den, 
217 


And  rode  away  across  the  hills 
To  Charlie  and  his  men, 

With  the  valiant  Scottish  cavaliers, 
All  of  the  olden  time ! 

He  was  the  first  that  bent  the  knee 

When  the  standard  waved  abroad, 
He  was  the  first  that  charged  the  foe 

On  Preston's  bloody  sod ; 
And  ever,  in  the  van  of  fight, 

The  foremost  still- he  trod, 
Until  on  bleak  Culloden's  heath 

He  gave  his  soul  to  God, 

Like  a  good  old  Scottish  cavalier, 
All  of  the  olden  time ! 

O,  never  shall  we  know  again 

A  heart  so  stout  and  true,  — 
The  olden  times  have  passed  away, 

And  weary  are  the  new ; 
The  fair  white  rose  has  faded 

From  the  garden  where  it  grew, 
But  no  fond  tears  save  those  of  heaven, 

The  glorious  bed  bedew 

Of  the  last  old  Scottish  cavalier, 
All  of  the  olden  time. 


218 


THE  SEA 

THOMAS  LOVELL  BEDDOES 

fO  sea,  to  sea !  the  calm  is  o'er, 
The  wanton  water  leaps  in  sport, 
And  rattles  down  the  pebbly  shore ; 

The  dolphin  wheels,  the  sea-cows  snort, 
And  unseen  Mermaids'  pearly  song 
Comes  bubbling  up,  the  weeds  among. 
Fling  broad  the  sail,  dip  deep  the  oar : 
To  sea,  to  sea !  the  calm  is  o'er. 

To  sea,  to  sea  !  our  white-wing'd  bark 
Shall  billowy  cleave  its  watery  way, 
And  with  its  shadow,  fleet  and  dark, 

Break  the  caved  Triton's  azure  day, 
Like  mountain  eagle  soaring  light 
O'er  antelopes  on  Alpine  height : 
The  anchor  heaves,  the  ship  swings  free, 
Our  sails  swell  full.     To  sea,  to  sea ! 


219 


BURIAL   OF   SIR  JOHN    MOORE 

CHARLES  WOLFE 

M[OT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
Jftl     As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried  ; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

220 


Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  — 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on, 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun, 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


221 


THE   SEA-FOWLER 

MARY   HOWITT 

fHE  baron  hath  the  landward  park,  the  fisher  hath 
the  sea ; 
But  the  rocky  haunts  of  the  sea-fowl  belong  alone  to  me. 

The  baron  hunts  the  running  deer,  the  fisher  nets  the 

brine ; 
But  every  bird  that  builds  a  nest  on  ocean-cliffs  is  mine. 

Come  on  then,  Jock  and  Alick,  let's  to  the  sea-rocks 

bold: 
I  was  train'd  to  take  the  sea-fowl  ere  I  was  five  years 

old. 

The  wild  sea  roars,  and  lashes  the  granite  crags  below, 
And  round  the  misty  islets  the  loud,  strong  tempests 
blow. 

And  let  them  blow !  Roar  wind  and  wave,  they  shall 

not  me  dismay ; 
I've  faced  the  eagle  in  her  nest  and  snatch'd  her  young 

away. 

222 


The  eagle  shall  not  build  her  nest,  proud  bird  although 

she  be, 
Nor  yet  the  strong-wing'd  cormorant,  without  the  leave 

of  me. 

The  eider-duck  has  laid  her  eggs,  the  tern  doth  hatch 

her  young, 
And  the  merry  gull  screams  o'er  her  brood ;  but  all  to 

me  belong. 

Away  then  in  the  daylight,  and  back  again  ere  eve  ; 
The  eagle  could  not  rear  her  young,  unless  I  gave  her 
leave. 

The  baron  hath  the  landward  park,  the  fisher  hath  the 

sea; 
But  the  rocky  haunts  of  the  sea-fowl  belong  alone  to  me. 


223 


SUMMER  WOODS 

MARY    HOWITT 

fOME  ye  into  the  summer  woods ; 
There  entereth  no  annoy ; 
All  greenly  wave  the  chestnut  leaves, 
And  the  earth  is  full  of  joy. 

I  cannot  tell  you  half  the  sights 

Of  beauty  you  may  see, 
The  bursts  of  golden  sunshine, 

And  many  a  shady  tree. 

There,  lightly  swung  in  bowery  glades, 

The  honeysuckles  twine  ; 
There  blooms  the  rose-red  campion, 

And  the  dark-blue  columbine. 

There  grows  the  four-leaved  plant,  "true  love," 

In  some  dusk  woodland  spot ; 
There  grows  the  enchanter's  night-shade, 

And  the  wood  forget-me-not. 

And  many  a  merry  bird  is  there, 

Unscared  by  lawless  men  ; 
The  blue-winged  jay,  the  woodpecker, 

And  the  golden-crested  wren. 
224 


Come  down,  and  ye  shall  see  them  all, 

The  timid  and  the  bold ; 
For  their  sweet  life  of  pleasantness, 

It  is  not  to  be  told. 

And  far  within  that  summer  wood, 

Among  the  leaves  so  green, 
There  flows  a  little  gurgling  brook, 

The  brightest  e'er  was  seen. 

There  come  the  little  gentle  birds, 

Without  a  fear  of  ill, 
Down  to  the  murmuring  water's  edge, 

And  freely  drink  their  fill ! 

And  dash  about  and  splash  about, 

The  merry  little  things ; 
And  look  askance  with  bright  black  eyes, 

And  flirt  their  dripping  wings. 

I've  seen  the  freakish  squirrels  drop 

Down  from  their  leafy  tree, 
The  little  squirrels  with  the  old ; 

Great  joy  it  was  to  me ! 

And  down  unto  the  running  brook, 

I've  seen  them  nimbly  go  ; 
And  the  bright  water  seemed  to  speak 

A  welcome  kind  and  low. 
225 


The  nodding  plants  they  bowed  their  heads 

As  if  in  heartsome  cheer : 
They  spake  unto  these  little  things, 

"  'Tis  merry  living  here  !  " 

Oh,  how  my  heart  ran  o'er  with  joy ! 

I  saw  that  all  was  good, 
And  how  we  might  glean  up  delight 

All  round  us,  if  we  would ! 

And  many  a  wood-mouse  dwelleth  there, 

Beneath  the  old  wood  shade, 
And  all  day  long  has  work  to  do, 

Nor  is  of  aught  afraid. 

The  green  shoots  grow  above  their  heads, 

And  roots  so  fresh  and  fine 
Beneath  their  feet ;  nor  is  there  strife 

'Mong  them  for  mine  and  thine. 

There  is  enough  for  every  one, 

And  they  lovingly  agree  ; 
We  might  learn  a  lesson  all  of  us, 

Beneath  the  green-wood  tree. 


226 


VIOLETS 

JOHN    MOULTRIE 

®NDER  the  green  hedges  after  the  snow, 
There  do  the  dear  little  violets  grow, 
Hiding  their  modest  and  beautiful  heads 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  soft  mossy  beds. 

Sweet  as  the  roses,  and  blue  as  the  sky, 

Down  there  do  the  dear  little  violets  lie ; 

Hiding  their  heads  where  they  scarce  may  be  seen, 

By  the  leaves  you  may  know  where  the  violet  hath  been 


227 


THE   BABIE 

HUGH    MILLER 

AE  shoon  to  hide  her  tiny  taes, 

Nae  stockings  on  her  feet ; 
Her  supple  ankles  white  as  snow, 
Or  early  blossoms  sweet. 

Her  simple  dress  of  sprinkled  pink, 
Her  double,  dimpled  chin ; 

Her  pucker'd  lip  and  bonny  mou', 
With  nae  ane  tooth  between. 

Her  een  sae  like  her  mither's  een, 
Twa  gentle,  liquid  things  ; 

Her  face  is  like  an  angel's  face  — 
We're  glad  she  has  nae  wings. 


228 


WILLIE  WINKIE 

WILLIAM    MILLER 

•EE  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the  town, 

Up  stairs  and  doon  stairs,  in  his  nicht-gown, 
Tirlin'  at  the  window,  cryin'  at  the  lock, 
"Are  the  weans  in  their  bed  ?— for  it's  now  ten  o'clock." 

Hey,  Willie  Winkie  !  are  ye  comin'  ben  ? 

The  cat's  singin'  gay  thrums  to  the  sleepin'  hen, 

The  doug's  spelder'd  on  the  floor,  and  disna  gie  a  cheep  ; 

But  here's  a  waukrife  laddie,  that  winna  fa'  asleep. 

Ony  thing  but  sleep,  ye  rogue!  —  glow'rin'   like  the 

moon, 

Rattlin'  in  an  airn  jug  wi'  an  aim  spoon, 
Rumblin',  tumblin'  roun'  about,  crawin'  like  a  cock, 
Skirlin'  like  a  kenna-what,  wauknin'  sleepin'  folk ! 

Hey,  Willie  Winkie  !  the  wean's  in  a  creel ! 
Waumblin'  aff  a  body's  knee  like  a  vera  eel, 
Ruggin'  at  the  cat's  lug,  and  ravellin'  a'  her  thrums  : 
Hey,  Willie  Winkie  !  —  See,  there  he  comes  ! 


229 


THE    KING   OF   DENMARK'S    RIDE 

CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  SARAH  NORTON  (LADY  STIRLING- 
MAXWELL) 

»ORD  was  brought  to  the  Danish  King 

(Hurry !) 

That  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suffering, 
And  pin'd  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would  bring ; 

(Oh  !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying  !) 
Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than  his  rich  crown  jewels  of  ruby  and  pearl; 
And  his  rose  of  the  isles  is  dying ! 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed, 

(Hurry !) 

Each  one  mounting  a  gallant  steed 
Which  he  kept  for  battle  and  days  of  need ; 

(Oh  !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying  !) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  flank  ; 
Worn-out  chargers  stagger'd  and  sank ; 
Bridles  were  slackened  and  girths  were  burst : 
But  ride  as  they  would,  the  king  rode  first, 

For  his  rose  of  the  isles  lay  dying ! 

His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  by  one ; 

(Hurry!) 

They  have  fainted,  and  falter'd,  and  homeward  gone; 

230 


His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone, 
For  strength  and  for  courage  trying. 

The  king  look'd  back  at  that  faithful  child ; 

Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  smil'd ; 

They  passed  the  drawbridge  with  clattering  din, 

Then  he  dropp'd  and  only  the  king  rode  in 
Where  his  rose  of  the  isles  lay  dying ! 

The  king  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle  horn ; 

(Silence !) 

No  answer  came ;  but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  return'd  on  the  cold  gray  morn, 

Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  sighing. 
The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  wide ; 
None  welcom'd  the  king  from  that  weary  ride ; 
For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day, 
The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay, 

Who  had  yearn'd  for  his  voice  while  dying ! 

/ 

The  panting  steed  with  a  drooping  crest, 

Stood  weary. 

The  king  return'd  from  her  chamber  of  rest, 
The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast; 

And  that  dumb  companion  eying. 
The  tears  gush'd  forth  which  he  strove  to  check ; 
He  bowed  his  head  on  his  charger's  neck ; 
**  O  steed  —  that  every  nerve  didst  strain, 
Dear  steed,  our  ride  has  been  in  vain 

To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying ! " 


231 


ROBERT    OF    LINCOLN 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 

ERRILY  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 

Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  drest, 

Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding-coat ; 
White  are  his  shoulders  and  white  his  crest. 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Look,  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings, 

Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings 
232 


Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Brood,  kind  creature ;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she  ; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note. 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man ; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can ! 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight ! 
There,  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Nice  good  wife  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell, 
Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food  ; 

Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood. 
233 


Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes  ;  the  children  are  grown ; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  humdrum  crone ; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 

When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


234 


TO   THE   FRINGED    GENTIAN 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 

fHOU  blossom,  bright  with  morning  dew, 
And  colour'd  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night ; 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 

O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 

Or  columbines,  in  purple  dress'd, 

Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  Year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue  —  blue  —  as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 

235 


SONG   OF    MARION'S   MEN 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 

®UR  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 
Our  leader  frank  and  bold ; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress  tree ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear : 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again ; 
236 


And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil ; 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  the  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  song  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads  — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'Tis  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain  ; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp  — 

A  moment  —  and  away  ! 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 
237 


Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs ; 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton 

Forever  from  our  shore. 


238 


THE   HUMBLE-BEE 

RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 

BURLY,  dozing,  humble-bee, 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek ; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid  zone  ! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines ; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness,  without  bound, 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavoury  or  unclean, 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen ; 
But  violets  and  bilberry  bells, 
Maple-sap,  and  daffodels, 
239 


Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 
Succory  to  match  the  sky, 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's  tongue, 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among  ; 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher ! 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 
Leave  the  chaff,  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep  ; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 


240 


FABLE 

RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 

fHE  mountain  and  the  squirrel 
Had  a  quarrel ; 

And  the  former  called  the  latter  '  Little  Prig.' 
Bun  replied, 

"  You  are  doubtless  very  big  ; 
But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 
Must  be  taken  in  together, 
To  make  up  a  year 
And  a  sphere. 
And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 
To  occupy  my  place. 
If  I'm  not  so  large  as  you, 
You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 
And  not  half  so  spry. 
I'll  not  deny  you  make 
A  very  pretty  squirrel  track ; 
Talents  differ ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put ; 
If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 
Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 


241 


THE   RHODORA 

RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

N  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 

I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 
The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool, 
Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty  gay ; 
Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 
And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 
Rhodora !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky, 
Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being : 
Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose ! 
I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew  : 
But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 
The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there  brought 
you. 


242 


THE   BAREFOOT    BOY 

JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER 

§LESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy,  — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy ! 
Prince  thou  art  —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  : 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy ! 

O  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
243 


Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild  flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  groundnut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine ; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  !  — 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

O  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 
-244 


For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall : 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides ! 
Still,  as  my  horizon  grew,  • 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too  : 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy ! 


245 


THE    HUSKERS  , 

JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER 

T  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autumnal 
rain 

Had  left  the  summer  harvest-fields  all  green  with  grass 
again  : 

The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all  the  wood- 
lands gay 

With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or  the  meadow- 
flowers  of  May. 

Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning,  the  sun  rose 

broad  and  red, 

At  first  a  rayless  disk  of  fire,  he  brightened  as  he  sped ; 
Yet,  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chastened  and  subdued, 
On  the  cornfields  and  the  orchard  and  softly  pictured 

wood. 

And  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping  to  the  night, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with  yellow  light ; 
Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he  glorified  the 

hill; 
And,  beneath  it,  pond  and  meadow  lay  brighter,  greener 

still. 

246 


And  shouting  boys  in  woodland  haunts  caught  glimpses 

of  that  sky, 
Flecked  by  many-tinted  leaves,  and  laughed,  they  knew 

not  why ; 
And   school-girls    gay   with   aster-flowers,    beside    the 

meadow  brooks, 
Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the  sunshine  of  sweet 

looks. 

From    spire    and    barn,    looked   westerly   the    patient 

weathercocks ; 
But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  motionless  as 

rocks. 
No  sound  was   in   the  woodlands,   save   the   squirrel's 

dropping  shell, 
And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs,  low  rustling 

as  they  fell. 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested ;  the  stubble-fields 

lay  dry, 
Where  June  winds  rolled,  in  light  and  shade,  the  pale 

green  waves  of  rye  ; 
But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys  fringed  with 

wood, 
Ungathered,  bleaching  in  the  sun,  the  heavy  corn  crop 

stood. 


Bent  low,  by  autumn's  wind  and  rain,  through  husks 
that,  dry  and  sere, 

247 


Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone  out  the  yel- 
low ear ; 

Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many  a  verdant 
fold; 

And  glistened  in  the  slanting  light  the  pumpkin's  sphere 
of  gold. 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters  ;  and  many  a  creak- 
ing wain 

Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-floor  its  load  of  husk  and 
grain  ; 

Till  broad  and  red  as  when  he  rose,  the  sun  sank  down, 
at  last, 

And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the  day  in  brightness 
passed. 

And  lo !    as  through   the  western   pines,  on   meadow, 

stream,  and  pond, 

Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  all  afire  beyond, 
Slowly  o'er  the  eastern  sea-bluffs  a  milder  glory  shone, 
And  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  were  mingled  into  one  ! 

As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight  lapsed  away, 

And  deeper  in  the  brightening  moon  the  tranquil  shad- 
ows lay, 

From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and  hamlet  with- 
out name, 

Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done,  the  merry 
huskers  came. 

248 


Swung  o'er  the  heaped-up  harvest,  from  pitchforks  in 

the  mow, 
Shone  dimly  down  the  lanterns  on  the  pleasant  scene 

below ; 
The  growing   pile   of   husks   behind,  the   golden    ears 

before, 
And  laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands  and  brown  cheeks 

glimmering  o'er. 

Half  hidden  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of  look  and  heart, 

Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men  sat  apart ; 

While,  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile,  or  nestling  in  its 
shade, 

At  hide-and-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout,  the  happy  chil- 
dren played. 

Urged  by  the  good  host's  daughter,  a  maiden  young 

and  fair, 
Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and  pride  of  soft 

brown  hair, 
The    master  of  the  village  school,  sleek   of   hair   and 

smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm  a  husking-ballad 

sung. 


249 


TWILIGHT 

HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

fHE  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free, 
And  like  the  wings  of  the  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 

But  in  the  fisherman's  cottage 
There  shines  a  ruddier  light, 

And  a  little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 

As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  looking  into  the  darkness, 

To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a  woman's  waving  shadow 

Is  passing  to  and  fro, 
Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 

What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night  wind,  bleak  and  wild, 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 
Tell  to  that  little  child  ? 
250 


And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night  wind,  wild  and  bleak, 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother, 
Drive  the  colour  from  her  cheek  ? 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS 

HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

fHERE  is  a  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 
And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 
And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

"  Shall  I  have  naught  that  is  fair  ?  "  saith  he  ; 

"  Have  naught  but  the  bearded  grain  ? 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 

I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 

He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves ; 
It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 

He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

"  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay," 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled ; 
"  Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

Where  He  was  once  a  child. 

"  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 
252 


And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 
The  flowers  she  most  did  love ; 

She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 
In  the  fields  of  light  above. 

O,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 

The  Reaper  came  that  day ; 
'Twas  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 

And  took  the  flowers  away. 


253 


FROM    HIAWATHA'S   CHILDHOOD 

HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

fHERE  the  wrinkled,  old  Nokomis 
Nursed  the  little  Hiawatha, 
Rocked  him  in  his  linden  cradle, 
Bedded  soft  in  moss  and  rushes, 
Safely  bound  with  reindeer  sinews  ; 
Stilled  his  fretful  wail  by  saying, 
"  Hush  !  the  Naked  Bear  will  get  thee  !  " 
Lulled  him  into  slumber,  singing, 
"  Ewa-yea  !  my  little  owlet ! 
Who  is  this,  that  lights  the  wigwam  ? 
With  his  great  eyes  lights  the  wigwam  ? 
Ewa-yea  !  my  little  owlet !  " 

Many  things  Nokomis  taught  him 
Of  the  stars  that  shine  in  heaven ; 
Showed  him  Ishkoodah,  the  comet, 
Ishkoodah,  with  fiery  tresses ; 
Showed  the  Death-Dance  of  the  spirits, 
Warriors  with  their  plumes  and  war-clubs, 
254 


Flaring  far  away  to  northward 
In  the  frosty  nights  of  Winter ; 
Showed  the  broad,  white  road  in  heaven, 
Pathway  of  the  ghosts,  the  shadows, 
Running  straight  across  the  heavens, 
Crowded  with  the  ghosts,  the  shadows. 

At  the  door,  on  summer  evenings 
Sat  the  little  Hiawatha ; 
Heard  the  whispering  of  the  pine  trees, 
Heard  the  lapping  of  the  water, 
Sounds  of  music,  words  of  wonder ; 
"  Minne-wawa  !  "  said  the  pine  trees, 
"  Mudway-aushka  !  "  said  the  water. 

Saw  the  fire-fly,  Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting  through  the  dusk  of  evening, 
With  the  twinkle  of  its  candle 
Lighting  up  its  brakes  and  bushes; 
And  he  sang  the  song  of  children, 
Sang  the  song  Nokomis  taught  him : 
"  Wah-wah-taysee,  little  fire-fly, 
Little,  flitting,  white-fire  insect, 
Little,  dancing,  white-fire  creature, 
Light  me  with  your  little  candle, 
Ere  upon  my  bed  I  lay  me, 
Ere  in  sleep  I  close  my  eyelids !  " 

Saw  the  moon  rise  from  the  water 
Rippling,  rounding  from  the  water, 
Saw  the  flecks  and  shadows  on  it, 
Whispered,  "  What  is  that,  Nokomis  ?  " 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered : 
255 


"  Once  a  warrior,  very  angry, 

Seized  his  grandmother,  and  threw  her 

Up  into  the  sky  at  midnight ; 

Right  against  the  moon  he  threw  her ; 

'Tis  her  body  that  you  see  there." 

Saw  the  rainbow  in  the  heaven, 
In  the  eastern  sky,  the  rainbow, 
Whispered,  "What  is  that,  Nokomis?" 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered : 
"  'Tis  the  heaven  of  flowers  you  see  there ; 
All  the  wild-flowers  of  the  forest, 
All  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 
When  on  earth  they  fade  and  perish, 
Blossom  in  that  heaven  above  us." 

When  he  heard  the  owls  at  midnight, 
Hooting,  laughing  in  the  forest, 
"  What  is  that  ?  "  he  cried  in  terror ; 
"  What  is  that,"  he  cried,  "  Nokomis  ?  " 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered : 
"  That  is  but  the  owl  and  owlet, 
Talking  in  their  native  language, 
Talking,  scolding  at  each  other." 

Then  the  little  Hiawatha 
Learned  of  every  bird  its  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  they  built  their  nests  in  Summer, 
Where  they  hid  themselves  in  Winter, 
Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  "  Hiawatha's  Chickens." 

Of  all  beasts  he  learned  the  language, 
256 


Learned  their  names  and  all  rheir  secrets, 

How  the  beavers"  built  their  lodges, 

Where  the  squirrels  hid  their  acorns, 

How  the  reindeer  ran  so  swiftly, 

Why  the  rabbit  was  so  timid, 

Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 

Called  them  "  Hiawatha's  Brothers." 


257 


SERENADE 

From  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

§TARS  of  the  summer  night, 
Far  in  yon  azure  deeps, 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 
Sleeps ! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 
Sleeps! 

Wind  of  the  summer  night ! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps  ! 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night ! 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 
Watch !  while  in  slumbers  light 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 
Sleeps ! 

258 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND 

HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

®NCE  into  a  quiet  village, 
Without  haste  and  without  heed, 
In  the  golden  prime  of  morning, 
Strayed  the  poet's  winged  steed. 

It  was  Autumn,  and  incessant 

Piped  the  quails  from  shocks  and  sheaves, 
And,  like  living  coals,  the  apples 

Burned  among  the  withering  leaves. 

Loud  the  clamorous  bell  was  ringing 
From  its  belfry  gaunt  and  grim  ; 

'Twas  the  daily  call  to  labour, 
Not  a  triumph  meant  for  him. 

Not  the  less  he  saw  the  landscape, 

In  its  gleaming  vapour  veiled  ; 
Not  the  less  he  breathed  the  odours 

That  the  dying  leaves  exhaled. 

Thus,  upon  the  village  common, 
By  the  school-boys  he  was  found  ; 

And  the  wise  men,  in  their  wisdom, 
Put  him  straightway  into  pound. 
239 


Then  the  sombre  village  crier, 
Ringing  loud  his  brazen  bell, 

Wandered  down  the  street  proclaiming 
There  was  an  estray  to  sell. 

And  the  curious  country  people, 
Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, 

Came  in  haste  to  see  this  wondrous 
Winged  steed,  with  mane  of  gold. 

Thus  the  day  passed,  and  the  evening 
Fell,  with  vapours  cold  and  dim  ; 

But  it  brought  no  food  nor  shelter, 
Brought  no  straw  nor  stall,  for  him. 

Patiently,  and  still  expectant, 

Looked  he  through  the  wooden  bars, 
Saw  the  moon  rise  o'er  the  landscape, 

Saw  the  tranquil,  patient  stars ; 

Till  at  length  the  bell  at  midnight 
Sounded  from  its  dark  abode, 

And  from  out  a  neighbouring  farm-yard 
Loud  the  cock  Alectryon  crowed. 

Then,  with  nostrils  wide  distended, 
Breaking  from  his  iron  chain, 

And  unfolding  far  his  pinions, 
To  those  stars  he  soared  again. 
260 


On  the  morrow,  when  the  village 
Woke  to  all  its  toil  and  care, 

Lo  !  the  strange  steed  had  departed, 
And  they  knew  not  when  nor  where. 

But  they  found,  upon  the  greensward 
Where  his  struggling  hoofs  had  trod, 

Pure  and  bright,  a  fountain  flowing 
From  the  hoof-marks  in  the  sod. 

From  that  hour,  the  fount  unfailing 
Gladdens  the  whole  region  round, 

Strengthening  all  who  drink  its  waters, 
While  it  soothes  them  with  its  sound. 


261 


THE  VILLAGE   BLACKSMITH 

HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

®NDER  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 
The  village  smithy  stands ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 
With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge. 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
262 


And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 
Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling  —  rejoicing  —  sorrowing  — 
Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  evening  sees  its  close ; 

Something  attempted  —  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught — ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought ! 
263 


THE   LAST   LEAF 

OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES 

SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 
And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 
With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 
In  their  bloom, 
264 


And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 
On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said  — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago  — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here ; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring,  - 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 
265 


OLD    IRONSIDES 

OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES 

7i[  Y,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 
l/fi  Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more ! 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea! 

O  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale ! 
266 


TO   THE   HUMMING-BIRD 

JONES    VERY 

{CANNOT  heal  thy  green  gold  breast, 
Where  deep  those  cruel  teeth  have  prest, 
Nor  bid  thee  raise  thy  ruffled  crest, 

And  seek  thy  mate, 
Who  sits  alone  within  thy  nest, 
Nor  sees  thy  fate. 

No  more  with  him  in  summer  hours 
Thou'lt  hum  amid  the  leafy  bowers, 
Nor  hover  round  the  dewy  flowers, 

To  feed  thy  young ; 
Nor  seek,  when  evening  darkly  lowers, 

Thy  nest  high  hung. 

No  more  thou'lt  know  a  mother's  care 
Thy  honeyed  spoils  at  eve  to  share, 
Nor  teach  thy  tender  brood  to  dare 

With  upward  spring, 
Their  path  through  fields  of  sunny  air, 

On  new-fledged  wing. 

For  thy  return  in  vain  shall  wait 

Thy  tender  young,  thy  fond,  fond  mate, 

Till  night's  last  stars  beam  forth  full  late 

On  their  sad  eyes  ; 
Unknown,  alas  !  thy  cruel  fate, 

Unheard  thy  cries ! 
267 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  TEMPEST 

JAMES    T.    FIELDS 

'E  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 

Not  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleep  — 
It  was  midnight  on  the  waters, 
And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 

'Tis  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  be  shattered  by  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "  Cut  away  the  mast !  " 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence,  — 
For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath, 

While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 

Each  one  busy  with  his  prayers,  — 

"We  are  lost !  "  the  captain  shouted, 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 

As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 
"  Isn't  God  upon  the  ocean, 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ? " 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 
And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer, 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbour 
When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 
268 


THE    FOUNTAIN 

JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 

{NTO  the  sunshine, 
Full  of  the  light, 
Leaping  and  flashing 
From  morn  till  night ! 

Into  the  moonlight, 
Whiter  than  snow, 

Waving  so  flower-like 
When  the  winds  blow ! 

Into  the  starlight 
Rushing  in  spray, 

Happy  at  midnight, 
Happy  by  day ! 

Ever  in  motion, 

Blithesome  and  cheery, 
Still  climbing  heavenward, 

Never  aweary ;  — 

Glad  of  all  weathers, 
Still  seeming  best, 

Upward  or  downward, 
Motion  thy  rest ;  — 
269 


Full  of  a  nature 

Nothing  can  tame, 
Changed  every  moment, 

Ever  the  same  ;  — 

Ceaseless  aspiring, 

Ceaseless  content, 
Darkness  or  sunshine 

Thy  element ;  — 

Glorious  fountain  ! 

Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant, 

Upward,  like  thee ! 


270 


STAND    BY   THE   FLAG! 

JOHN    NICHOLS    WILDER 

§TAND  by  the  Flag !   Its  stars,  like  meteors  gleaming, 
Have  lighted  Arctic  icebergs,  Southern  seas, 
And  shown  responsive  to  the  stony  beaming 
Of  old  Arcturus  and  the  Pleiades. 

Stand  by  the  Flag !     Its  stripes  have  streamed  in  glory, 

To  foes  a  fear,  to  friends  a  festal  robe, 
And  spread  in  rhythmic  lines  the  sacred  story 
•  Of  freedom's  triumphs  over  all  the  globe. 

Stand  by  the  Flag !     On  land  and  ocean  billow, 
By  it  your  fathers  stood,  unmoved  and  true  ; 

Living,  defended ;  dying,  from  their  pillow 
With  their  last  blessing  passed  it  on  to  you. 

Stand  by  the  Flag !     Immortal  heroes  bore  it 

Through  sulphurous  smoke,  deep  moat,  and  armed 
defence, 

And  their  imperial  shades  still  hover  o'er  it,  — 
A  guard  celestial  from  Omnipotence. 

Stand  by  the  Flag,  though  death  shots  round  it  rattle, 
And  underneath  its  waving  folds  have  met, 

In  all  the  dread  array  of  sanguine  battle, 
The  quiv'ring  lance  and  glitt'ring  bayonet ! 

271 


Stand  by  the  Flag,  all  doubt  and  danger  scorning ! 

Believe,  with  courage  firm  and  faith  sublime, 
That  it  shall  float  until  th'  eternal  morning 

Pales  in  its  glories  all  the  lights  of  Time. 


272 


CARMEN    BELLICOSUM 

GUY    HUMPHREYS    MCMASTER 

N  their  ragged  regimentals 
Stood  the  old  Continentals, 

Yielding  not, 

When  the  grenadiers  were  lunging, 
And  like  hail  fell  the  plunging 
Cannon  shot ; 
When  the  files 
Of  the  isles, 

From  their  smoky  night  encampment,  bore  the 
banner  of  the  rampant 

Unicorn, 

And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer,  roll'd  the  roll 
of  the  drummer, 

Through  the  morn ! 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 
And  guns  horizontal, 

Stood  our  sires ; 
And  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 
And  in  streams  flashing  redly 

Blazed  the  fires ; 

As  the  roar 

On  the  shore, 
273 


Swept  the  strong  battle-breakers  o'er  the  green 
sodded  acres 

Of  the  plain ; 

And  louder,   louder,  louder,   cracked  the  black 
gunpowder, 

Cracking  amain ! 

Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Worked  the  red  Saint  George's 

Cannoniers, 

And  the  "  villanous  saltpetre  " 
Rung  a  fierce,  discordant  metre 

'Round  their  ears; 

As  the  swift 

Storm-drift, 

With    hot,    sweeping    anger,    came    the    Horse 
Guards'  clangour 

On  our  flanks ; 

And  higher,  higher,  higher,  burned  the  old-fash- 
ioned fire 

Through  the  ranks  ! 

Then  the  old-fashioned  Colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 

Powder  cloud ; 

His  broad-sword  was  swinging, 
And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 

Trumpet  loud ; 

Then  the  blue 

Bullets  flew, 
274 


And   the  trooper-jackets  redden   at   the  touch   of  the 
leaden 

Rifle-breath ; 

And   rounder,   rounder,    rounder,  roared  our  iron  six- 
pounder, 

Hurling  death ! 


275 


THE   MUFFLED    DRUM'S    SAD    ROLL 

From  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 
THEODORE   o'HARA 

fHE  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 
The  soldiers'  last  tattoo ; 
No  more  on  Life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 
The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 


270 


GOOD-NIGHT   AND    GOOD-MORNING 

LORD    HOUGHTON  (RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES) 

Q    FAIR  little  girl  sat  under  a  tree, 
Jft    Sewing  as  long  as  her  eyes  could  see ; 
Then  smoothed  her  work,  and  folded  it  right, 
And  said,  "  Dear  work,  good-night,  good-night !  " 

A  number  of  rooks  came  over  her  head, 
Crying,  "  Caw  !  caw  !  "  on  their  way  to  bed, 
She  said,  as  she  watched  their  curious  flight, 
"  Little  black  things,  good-night,  good-night !  " 

The  horses  neighed  and  the  oxen  lowed, 

The  sheep's  "  Bleat !  bleat !  "  came  over  the  road  ; 

All  seeming  to  say  with  a  quiet  delight, 

"  Good  little  girl,  good-night,  good-night !  " 

She  did  not  say  to  the  sun,  "  Good-night !  " 
Though  she  saw  him  there  like  a  ball  of  light ; 
For  she  knew  he  had  God's  time  to  keep 
All  over  the  world,  and  never  could  sleep. 

The  tall  pink  foxglove  bowed  his  head ; 
The  violets  curtsied,  and  went  to  bed  ; 
And  good  little  Lucy  tied  up  her  hair, 
And  said,  on  her  knees,  her  favourite  prayer. 

And,  while  on  her  pillow  she  softly  lay, 

She  knew  nothing  more  till  again  it  was  day  ; 

And  all  things  said  to  the  beautiful  sun, 

"  Good-morning,  good-morning  !  our  work  is  begun." 

277 


BREAK,    BREAK,    BREAK 

ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 

§REAK,  break,  break, 
On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


278 


THE    CHARGE   OF   THE    LIGHT    BRIGADE 

ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 

TJJALF  a  league,  half  a  league, 
SI     Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade ! 
Charge  for  the  guns !  "  he  said  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! }S 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd  ? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd. 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 
Volley'd  and  thunder'd ; 
279 


Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turned  in  air, 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke, 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke, 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not  — 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd  ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 
280 


When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honour  the  charge  they  made! 
Honour  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred ! 


281 


SONG 

THE  OWL 

ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

I 

WHEN  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 
And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round  ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


ii 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 

And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay, 
And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


282 


SECOND  SONG 

To  the  Same 
I 

Thy  tuwhits  are  lull'd,  I  wot, 

Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 
Which  upon  the  dark  afloat, 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 

That  her  voice  untuneful  grown,' 
Wears  all  day  a  fainter  tone. 


ii 

I  would  mock  thy  chant  anew ; 

But  I  cannot  mimic  it ; 
Not  a  whit  of  thy  tuwhoo, 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 

With  a  lengthen'd  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo-o-o. 


283 


THE    MERMAN 

ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 

I 

'HO  would  be 

A  merman  bold, 
Sitting  alone, 
Singing  alone 
Under  the  sea, 
With  a  crown  of  gold, 
On  a  throne  ? 

ii 

I  would  be  a  merman  bold ; 
I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the  day ; 
I  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice  of  power 
But  at  night  I  would  roam  abroad  and  play 
With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the  rocks, 
Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea-flower; 
And  holding  them  back  by  their  flowing  locks 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly ; 
And  then  we  would  wander  away,  away, 
To  the  pale  sea-groves  straight  and  high 

Chasing  each  other  merrily. 
284 


THE   MERMAID 

ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 


'HO  would  be 

A  mermaid  fair, 
Singing  alone, 
Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea, 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  pearl, 
On  a  throne  ? 

ii 

I  would  be  a  mermaid  fair ; 

I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of  the  day ; 

With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  would  comb  my  hair ; 

And  still  as  I  comb'd  I  would  sing  and  say, 

"  Who  is  it  loves  me  ?  who  loves  not  me  ?  " 

I  would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets  would  fall, 

Low  adown,  low  adown, 
And  I  should  look  like  a  fountain  of  gold 

Springing  alone 

With  a  shrill  inner  sound 

Over  the  throne 

In  the  midst  of  the  hall. 
285 


THE   BUGLE   SONG 

ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 

fHE  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 

O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying  : 

Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river ; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


286 


CRADLE   SONG 

ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 

HAT  does  little  birdie  say 

In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
Baby,  too,  shall  fly  away. 


287 


WHEN? 

ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 

§UN  comes,  moon  comes, 
Time  slips  away, 
Sun  sets,  moon  sets, 
Love,  fix  a  day. 

"A  year  hence,  a  year  hence." 
"We  shall  both  be  gray." 

"A  month  hence,  a  month  hence.1 
"Far,  far  away." 

"A  week  hence,  a  week  hence." 

"Ah,  the  long  delay." 
"  Wait  a  little,  wait  a  little, 

You  shall  fix  a  day." 

"To-morrow,  love,  to-morrow, 
And  that's  an  age  away." 

Blaze  upon  her  window,  sun, 
And  honour  all  the  day. 


288 


WINTER 

ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 

fHE  frost  is  here, 
And  fuel  is  dear, 
And  woods  are  sear, 
And  fires  burn  clear, 
And  frost  is  here 

And  has  bitten  the  heel  of  the  going  year. 
Bite,  frost,  bite ! 

You  roll  up  away  from  the  light 
The  blue  woodlouse  and  the  plump  dormouse., 
And  the  bees  are  still'd,  and  the  flies  are  kill'd, 
And  you  bite  far  into  the  heart  of  the  house, 
But  not  into  mine. 

Bite,  frost,  bite ! 

The  woods  are  all  the  searer, 

The  fuel  is  all  the  dearer, 

The  fires  are  all  the  clearer, 

My  spring  is  all  the  nearer, 

You  have  bitten  into  the  heart  of  the  earth 

But  not  into  mine. 


289 


LULLABY 

ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 


and  low,  sweet  and  low, 
A®    Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me  ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Rest,  rest  on  Mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon: 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 


290 


THE   BROOK 

ALFRED,    LORD   TENNYSON 

COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 
I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 
To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river ; 
For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles ; 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays ; 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  bank  I  fret, 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 
291 


I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river; 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me  as  I  travel, 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel; 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers, 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 
292 


I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 


293 


HOME-THOUGHTS   FROM   ABROAD 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

®H  to  be  in  England 
Now  that  April's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England 
Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England  —  now. 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 

And  the  white-throat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  — 

Hark !  where  my  blossomed  pear  tree  in  the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 

Blossoms  and  dewdrops  —  at  the  bent  spray's  edge  — 

That's  the  wise  thrush  ;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture ! 

And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 

All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 

The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower, 

—  Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower. 


294 


BOOT   AND   SADDLE 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

§OOT,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  ! 
Rescue  my  castle,  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silver  gray, 

(Cho.)  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away! 

Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you'd  say ; 
Many's  the  friend  there  will  listen  and  pray 
"  God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the  lay, 
(Cho.)  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away !  " 

Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay, 
Flouts  Castle  Brancepeth  the  Roundheads'  array : 
Who  laughs,  "  Good  fellows  ere  this,  by  my  fay, 
(Cho.)  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  "  ? 

Who  ?     My  wife  Gertrude  ;  that,  honest  and  gay, 
Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrendering,  "  Nay ! 
I've  better  counsellors  ;  what  counsel  they? 

(Cho.)  '  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away ! ' ' 


295 


SONG 

From  PIPPA  PASSES 
ROBERT    BROWNING 

fHE  year's  at  the  Spring, 
And  day's  at  the  Morn ; 
Morning's  at  seven  ; 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearled  : 
The  lark's  on  the  wing ; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn ; 
God's  in  his  heaven  — 
All's  right  with  the  world ! 


296 


INCIDENT   OF   THE   FRENCH    CAMP 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

YOU  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon : 
A  mile  or  so  away 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 
Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army  leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall," 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping  ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  L  Arse's  mane,  a  boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect,  — 
297 


(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  thro') 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him!  "  The  chief's  eye  flashed;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed  ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  Mother  eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes: 
"  You're  wounded  !  "     "  Nay,"  his  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said : 
"  I'm  killed,  sire  !  "     And,  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 


298 


CHILDREN   GATHERING   PALMS 

From  A  VISION  OF  POETS 
ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 

§UT  hark !  a  distant  sound  that  grows, 
A  heaving,  sinking  of  the  boughs, 
A  rustling  murmur,  not  of  those, 

A  breezy  noise  which  is  not  breeze ! 
And  white-clad  children  by  degrees 
Steal  out  in  troops  among  the  trees,  — 

Fair  little  children,  morning-bright,  — 
With  faces  grave,  yet  soft  to  sight, 
Expressive  of  restrained  delight. 

Some  plucked  the  palm-boughs  within  reach, 

And  others  leapt  up  high  to  catch 

The  upper  boughs,  and  shake  from  each 

A  rain  of  dew,  till,  wetted  so, 

The  child  that  held  the  branch  let  go, 

And  it  swang  backward  with  a  flow 

Of  faster  drippings,  then  I  knew 
The  children  laughed  ;  but  the  laugh  flew 
From  its  own  chirrup  as  might  do 
299 


A  frightened  song-bird  ;  and  a  child 
Who  seemed  the  chief,  said,  very  mild, 
"Hush!  keep  this  morning  undefiled." 

His  eyes  rebuked  them  from  calm  spheres ; 
His  soul  upon  his  brow  appears, 
In  waiting  for  more  holy  years. 

I  called  the  child  to  me,  and  said, 

"  What  are  your  palms  for  ?  "  —  "  To  be  spread/' 

He  answered,  "  on  a  poet  dead. 

"  The  poet  died  last  month,  and  now 

The  world,  which  had  been  somewhat  slow 

In  honouring  his  living  brow, 

"  Commands  the  palms  ;  they  must  be  strown 
On  his  new  marble  very  soon, 
In  a  procession  of  the  town." 


300 


THE    ROMANCE   OF   THE   SWAN'S    NEST 

ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 

T%  ITTLE  Ellie  sits  alone 

]SL    'Mid  the  beeches  of  a  meadow, 

By  a  stream-side  on  the  grass ; 

And  the  trees  are  showering  down 
•  Doubles  of  their  leaves  in  shadow 

On  her  shining  hair  and  face. 

She  has  thrown  her  bonnet  by ; 
And  her  feet  she  has  been  dipping 

In  the  shallow  water's  flow ; 

Now  she  holds  them  nakedly 
In  her  hands,  all  sleek  and  dripping, 

While  she  rocketh  to  and  fro. 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone, 
And  the  smile  she  softly  useth 

Fills  the  silence  like  a  speech ; 

While  she  thinks  what  shall  be  done, 
And  the  sweetest  pleasure  chooseth 

For  her  future,  within  reach. 

Little  Ellie  in  her  smile 
Chooseth,  "  I  will  have  a  lover, 
Riding  on  a  steed  of  steeds : 
301 


He  shall  love  me  without  guile; 
And  to  him  I  will  discover 

The  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds. 

"  And  the  steed  it  shall  be  red-roan, 
And  the  lover  shall  be  noble, 

With  an  eye  that  takes  the  breath, 

And  the  lute  he  plays  upon 
Shall  strike  ladies  into  trouble, 

As  his  sword  strikes  men  to  death. 

"  And  the  steed  it  shall  be  shod 
All  in  silver,  housed  in  azure, 

And  the  mane  shall  swim  the  wind ; 

And  the  hoofs  along  the  sod 
Shall  flash  onward  and  keep  measure, 

Till  the  shepherds  look  behind. 

"  He  will  kiss  me  on  the  mouth 
Then,  and  lead  me  as  a  lover, 

Through  the  crowds  that  praise  his  deeds ; 

And,  when  soul-tied  by  one  troth, 
Unto  him  I  will  discover 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds." 

Little  Ellie,  with  her  smile 
Not  yet  ended,  rose  up  gayly,  - — 
Tied  the  bonnet,  donn'd  the  shoe, 
And  went  homeward  round  a  mile, 

302 


Just  to  see,  as  she  did  daily, 

What  more  eggs  were  with  the  two. 

Pushing  through  the  elm-tree  copse, 
Winding  by  the  stream,  light-hearted, 

Where  the  osier  pathway  leads, 

Past  the  boughs,  she  stoops  and  stops 
Lo !  the  wild  swan  had  deserted, 

And  a  rat  had  gnawed  the  reeds. 

Ellie  went  home  sad  and  slow. 
If  she  found  the  lover  ever, 

With  his  red-roan  steed  of  steeds, 
Sooth  I  know  not !  but  I  know 
She  could  never  show  him  —  never, 
That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds. 


303 


THE  NECKAN 

MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

N  summer,  on  the  headlands, 

The  Baltic  Sea  along, 
Sits  Neckan  with  his  harp  of  gold, 
And  sings  his  plaintive  song. 

Green  rolls  beneath  the  headlands, 

Green  rolls  the  Baltic  Sea  ; 
And  there,  below  the  Neckan's  feet, 

His  wife  and  children  be. 

He  sings  not  of  the  ocean, 

Its  shells  and  roses  pale  ; 
Of  earth,  of  earth  the  Neckan  sings, 

He  hath  no  other  tale. 

He  sits  upon  the  headlands, 
And  sings  a  mournful  stave 

Of  all  he  saw  and  felt  on  earth, 
Far  from  the  kind  sea-wave. 

Sings  how  a  knight,  he  wander'd 
By  castle,  field,  and  town  — 

But  earthly  knights  have  harder  hearts 
Than  the  sea-children  own. 
304 


Sings  of  his  early  bridal  — 

Priest,  knights,  and  ladies  gay. 
"  —  And  who  art  thou,"  the  priest  began, 

"  Sir  Knight,  who  wedd'st  to-day  ?  " 

" —  I  am  no  knight,"  he  answered  ; 

"  From  the  sea-waves  I  come."  — 
The  knights  drew  sword,  the  ladies  scream'd, 

The  surprised  priest  stood  dumb. 

He  sings  how  from  the  chapel 
He  vanished  with  his  bride, 
And  bore  her  down  to  the  sea-halls, 

Beneath  the  salt  sea-tide. 

• 

He  sings  how  she  sits  weeping 

'Mid  shells  that  round  her  lie. 
"  —  False  Neckan  shares  my  bed,"  she  weeps ; 

"  No  Christian  mate  have  I."  — 

He  sings  how  through  the  billows 

He  rose  to  earth  again, 
And  sought  a  priest  to  sign  the  cross, 

That  Neckan  Heaven  might  gain. 

He  sings  how,  on  an  evening, 

Beneath  the  birch  trees  cool, 
He  sate  and  play'd  his  harp  of  gold, 

Beside  the  river-pool. 
305 


Beside  the  pool  sate  Neckan  — 
Tears  fill'd  his  mild  blue  eye. 

On  his  white  mule,  across  the  bridge, 
A  cassock'd  priest  rode  by. 

«  —  Why  sitt'st  thou  there,  O  Neckan, 
And  play'st  thy  harp  of  gold  ? 

Sooner  shall  this  my  staff  bear  leaves, 
Than  thou  shalt  Heaven  behold."  — 

But,  lo,  the  staff,  it  budded  ! 

It  green'd,  it  branch'd,  it  waved. 
"  —  O  ruth  of  God,"  the  priest  cried  out, 

"  This  lost  sea-creature  saved  !  " 

The  cassock'd  priest  rode  onwards, 
And  vanished  with  his  mule ; 

But  Neckan  in  the  twilight  gray, 
Wept  by  the  river-pool. 

He  wept :  "The  earth  hath  kindness, 

The  sea,  the  starry  poles ; 
Earth,  sea,  and  sky,  and  God  above  — 

But,  ah,  not  human  souls  !  " 

In  summer,  on  the  headlands, 

The  Baltic  Sea  along, 
Sits  Neckan  with  his  harp  of  gold, 

And  sings  this  plaintive  song. 
306 


CALLICLES'    SONG   OF   APOLLO 

From  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA 
MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

®N  the  sward  at  the  cliff -top 
Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks; 
On  the  cliff-side  the  pigeons 
Roost  deep  in  the  rocks. 

In  the  moonlight  the  shepherds, 

Soft  lull'd  by  the  rills, 
Lie  wrapt  in  their  blankets 

Asleep  on  the  hills. 

What  forms  are  these  coming 
So  white  through  the  gloom  ? 

What  garments  out-glistening 
The  gold-flower'd  broom  ? 

What  sweet-breathing  presence 
Out-perfumes  the  thyme  ? 

What  voices  enrapture 

The  night's  balmy  prime  ?  — • 

'Tis  Apollo  comes  leading 

His  choir,  the  Nine. 
—  The  leader  is  fairest, 

But  all  are  divine. 
307 


They  are  lost  in  the  hollows ! 

They  stream  up  again ! 
What  seeks  on  this  mountain 

The  glorified  train  ? 

They  bathe  on  this  mountain, 
In  the  spring  by  their  road ; 

Then  on  to  Olympus, 
Their  endless  abode. 


308 


EVENING 

From   BACCHANALIA 
MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

¥HE  evening  comes,  the  fields  are  still. 
The  tinkle  of  the  thirsty  rill, 
Unheard  all  day,  ascends  again ; 
Deserted  is  the  half-mown  plain, 
Silent  the  swaths  !  the  ringing  wain, 
The  mower's  cry,  the  dog's  alarms, 
All  housed  within  the  sleeping  farms  ! 
The  business  of  the  day  is  done, 
The  last-left  haymaker  is  gone. 
And  from  the  thyme  upon  the  height 
And  from  the  elder-blossom  white 
And  pale  dog-roses  in  the  hedge, 
And  from  the  mint-plant  in  the  sedge, 
In  puffs  of  balm  the  night-air  blows 
The  perfume  which  the  day  forgoes. 
And  on  the  pure  horizon  far, 
See,  pulsing  with  the  first-born  star, 
The  liquid  sky  above  the  hill ! 
The  evening  comes,  the  fields  are  still. 


309 


WHERE   LIES   THE   LAND? 

ARTHUR    HUGH    CLOUGH 


lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go  ? 
W     Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ?     Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

On  sunny  noons  upon  the  deck's  smooth  face, 
Link'd  arm  in  arm,  how  pleasant  here  to  pace  ; 
Or,  o'er  the  stern  reclining,  watch  below 
The  foaming  wake  far  widening  as  we  go. 

On  stormy  nights  when  wild  north-westers  rave, 
How  proud  a  thing  to  fight  with  wind  and  wave  ! 
The  dripping  sailor  on  the  reeling  mast 
Exults  to  bear,  and  scorns  to  wish  it  past. 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go  ? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ?     Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 


310 


AFTER  THE  STORM 

From  THE  WHITE  SQUALL 
WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY 

SND  when,  —  its  force  expended, 
The  harmless  storm  was  ended, 
And  as  the  sunrise  splendid 

Came  blushing  o'er  the  sea,  — 
I  thought,  as  day  was  breaking, 
My  little  girls  were  waking, 
And  smiling  and  making 
A  prayer  at  home  for  me. 


THE   ROSE   UPON    MY   BALCONY 

From  VANITY  FAIR 
WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 

fHE    rose    upon     my     balcony,    the    morning    air 
perfuming, 
Was  leafless   all    the   winter  time   and  pining  for   the 

spring ; 
You   ask  me  why  her  breath    is  sweet,  and   why  her 

cheek  is  blooming ; 
It  is  because  the  sun  is  out  and  birds  begin  to  sing. 

The  nightingale,  whose  melody  is  through  the  green- 
wood ringing, 

Was  silent  when  the  boughs  were  bare  and  winds  were 
blowing  keen. 

And  if,  Mamma,  you  ask  of  me  the  reason  of  his  singing, 

It  is  because  the  sun  is  out  and  all  the  leaves  are  green. 

Thus  each  performs  his  part,  Mamma ;  the  birds  have 

found  their  voices, 
The  blowing  rose  a  flush,   Mamma,   her   bonny  cheek 

to  dye ; 
And   there's   sunshine   in    my   heart,    Mamma,    which 

wakens  and  rejoices, 
And  so  I  sing  and  blush,  Mamma,  and  that's  the  reason 

why. 

312 


THE   SANDS   OF   DEE 

CHARLES    KINGSLEY 

"/H\H  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
V2/     And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee  !  " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi'  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see, 

The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land  — 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"  Oh  !  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair  — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair, 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  row'd  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel  crawling  foam, 
The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea ; 

But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee ! 


THE   THREE   FISHERS 

CHARLES    KINGSLEY 

fHREE  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west, 
Out  into  the  west  as  the  sun  went  down ; 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  lov'd  him  the  best ; 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the 

town ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  there's  little  to  earn  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbour  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower, 

And  they  trimm'd  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down ; 

They  look'd  at  the  squall,  and  they  look'd  at  the  shower, 
And  the  night  rack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and  brown  1 

But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbour  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  sun  went  down, 

And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

And  the  sooner  it's  over  the  sooner  to  sleep, 
And  good-by  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 


A   FAREWELL 

CHARLES   KINGSLEY 

Y  fairest  child,  I  have  no*song  to  give  you ; 

No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull  and  gray ; 
Yet,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can  leave  you 
For  every  day : 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever ; 

Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long ; 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  Forever 

One  grand,  sweet  song. 


315 


THE   "OLD,    OLD    SONG" 

From  THE  WATER  BABIES 

CHARLES    KINGSLEY 

WHEN  all  the  world  is  young,  lad, 
And  all  the  trees  are  green ; 
And  every  goose  a  swan,  lad, 
And  every  lass  a  queen,  — 
Then  hey  for  boot  and  horse,  lad, 

And  round  the  world  away ; 
Young  blood  must  have  its  course,  lad, 
And  every  dog  his  day. 

When  all  the  world  is  old,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  brown ; 
And  all  the  sport  is  stale,  lad, 

And  all  the  wheels  run  down,  — 
Creep  home,  and  take  your  place  there, 

The  spent  and  maimed  among : 
God  grant  you  find  one  face  there 

You  loved  when  all  was  young. 


316 


THE   FAIRIES 

A    Child's  Song 

WILLIAM    ALLINGHAM 

7|TP  the  airy  mountain, 
\jjJi    Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  dare  not  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather ! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home,  — 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam  ; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-tops 

The  old  King  sits ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
317 


With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses ; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights, 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long ; 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow, 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lakes, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wakes. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn  trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  one  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 

In  his  bed  at  night. 
318 


Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather 


319 


ROBIN    REDBREAST 

WILLIAM    ALLINGHAM 

/^OOD-BY,  good-by  to  summer! 
\§[    For  summer's  nearly  done  ; 
The  garden  smiling  faintly, 
Cool  breezes  in  the  sun ; 
Our  thrushes  now  are  silent, 

Our  swallows  flown  away,  — 
But  Robin's  here,  in  coat  of  brown, 
And  ruddy  breast-knot  gay, 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear ! 
Robin  sings  so  sweetly 
In  the  falling  of  the  year. 

Bright  yellow,  red,  and  orange, 

The  leaves  come  down  in  hosts ; 
The  trees  are  Indian  princes, 

But  soon  they'll  turn  to  ghosts ; 
The  leathery  pears  and  apples 

Hang  russet  on  the  bough  ; 
It's  autumn,  autumn,  autumn  late, 

'Twill  soon  be  winter  now. 
320 


Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear ! 

And  what  will  this  poor  Robin  do  ? 
For  pinching  days  are  near. 

The  fireside  for  the  cricket, 

The  wheatstack  for  the  mouse, 
When  trembling  night-winds  whistle 

And  moan  all  round  the  house. 
The  frosty  ways  like  iron, 

The  branches  plumed  with  snow,  — 
Alas  !  in  winter  dead  and  dark, 
Where  can  poor  Robin  go  ? 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear ! 

And  a  crumb  of  bread  for  Robin, 
His  little  heart  to  cheer! 


HALF   WAKING 

WILLIAM    ALLINGHAM 

THOUGHT  it  was  the  little  bed 

I  slept  in  long  ago ; 
A  straight  white  curtain  at  the  head, 
And  two  smooth  knobs  below. 

I  thought  I  saw  the  nursery  fire, 

And  in  a  chair  well  known 
My  mother  sat,  and  did  not  tire 

With  reading  all  alone. 

If  I  should  make  the  slightest  sound 

To  show  that  I'm  awake, 
She'd  rise,  and  lap  the  blankets  round, 

My  pillows  softly  shake  ; 

Kiss  me,  and  turn  my  face  to  see 

The  shadows  on  the  wall, 
And  then  sing  "  Rousseau's  Dream  "  to  me, 

Till  fast  asleep  I  fall. 

But  this  is  not  my  little  bed ; 

That  time  is  far  away  : 
With  strangers  now  I  live  instead, 

From  dreary  day  to  day. 
322 


,  HOW'S   MY   BOY 

SIDNEY    DOBELL 

"  T^JQ»  sailor  of  the  sea! 

JB>1     How's  my  boy,  my  boy  ?  " 
"  What's  your  boy's  name,  good  wife, 
And  in  what  good  ship  sail'd  he  ? " 

"My  boy  John  — 

He  that  went  to  sea  — 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor  ? 

My  boy's  my  boy  to  me. 

"You  come  back  from  sea 

And  not  know  my  John  ? 

I  might  as  well  have  asked  some  landsman 

Yonder  down  in  the  town. 

There's  not  an  ass  in  all  the  parish 

But  he  knows  my  John. 

"  How's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 
And  unless  you  let  me  know 
I'll  swear  you  are  no  sailor, 
Blue  jacket  or  no, 
Brass  buttons  or  no,  sailor, 
Anchor  and  crown  or  no  ! 
Sure  his  ship  was  the  Jolly  Briton,  —  " 
"  Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low  !  " 
323 


"  And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor, 
About  my  own  boy  John  ? 
If  I  was  loud  as  I  am  proud 
I'd  sing  him  over  the  town ! 
Why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor?" 
"That  good  ship  went  down." 

"How's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor, 

I  never  was  aboard  her. 

Be  she  afloat,  or  be  she  aground, 

Sinking  or  swimming,  I'll  be  bound, 

Her  owners  can  afford  her ! 

I  say,  how's  my  John  ?  " 

"  Every  man  on  board  went  down, 

Every  man  aboard  her." 

"  How's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  men,  sailor  ? 
I'm  not  their  mother  — 
How's  my  boy —  my  boy  ? 
Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other ! 
How's  my  boy  — my  boy  ?  " 


324 


UNDER    MY  WINDOW 

THOMAS     WESTWOOD 

®NDER  my  window,  under  my  window, 
All  in  the  midsummer  weather, 
Three  little  girls  with  fluttering  curls 

Flit  to  and  fro  together  :  — 
There's  Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 
And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver-green, 
And  Kate  with  her  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

Leaning  stealthily  over, 
Merry  and  clear,  the  voice  I  hear, 

Of  each  glad-hearted  rover. 
Ah !  sly  little  Kate,  she  steals  my  roses  : 
And  Maud  and  Bell  twine  wreaths  and  posies, 

As  merry  as  bees  in  clover. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 
In  the  blue  midsummer  weather, 

Stealing  slow  on  a  hushed  tip-toe, 
I  catch  them  all  together  :  — 

Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 

And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver-green, 
And  Kate  with  the  scarlet  feather. 
325 


Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 
And  off  through  the  orchard  closes ; 

While  Maud  she  flouts,  and  Bell  she  pouts, 
They  scamper  and  drop  their  posies ; 

But  dear  little  Kate  takes  naught  amiss, 

And  leaps  in  my  arms  with  a  loving  kiss, 
And  I  give  her  all  my  roses. 


326 


LITTLE   BELL 

THOMAS     WESTWOOD 

He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

—  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

flPED  the  blackbird  on  the  beechwood  spray: 
"  Pretty  maid,  slow  wandering  this  way, 
What's  your  name  ?"  quoth  he  — 
"  What's  your  name  ?     Oh  stop  and  straight  unfold, 
Pretty  maid  with  showery  curls  of  gold,"  — 
"  Little  Bell,"  said  she. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  beneath  the  rocks  — 
Tossed  aside  her  gleaming  golden  locks  — 

"  Bonny  bird,"  quoth  she, 
"  Sing  me  your  best  song  before  I  go," 
"  Here's  the  very  finest  song  I  know, 

Little  Bell,"  said  he. 

And  the  blackbird  piped  ;  you  never  heard 
Half  so  gay  a  song  from  any  bird  — 

Full  of  quips  and  wiles, 
Now  so  round  and  rich,  now  soft  and  slow, 
All  for  love  of  that  sweet  face  below, 

Dimpled  o'er  with  smiles. 
327 


And  the  while  the  bonny  bird  did  pour 
His  full  heart  out  freely  o'er  and  o'er 

'Neath  the  morning  skies, 
In  the  childish  heart  below 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  forth  in  happy  overflow 

From  the  blue,  bright  eyes. 

Down  the  dell  she  tripped  and  through  the  glade, 
Peeped  the  squirrel  from  the  hazel  shade, 

And  from  out  the  tree 

Swung,  and  leaped,  and  frolicked,  void  of  fear,  — 
While  bold  blackbird  piped  that  all  might  hear  — 

"  Little  Bell,"  piped  he. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  amid  the  fern  — 

"  Squirrel,  squirrel,  to  your  task  return  — 

Bring  me  nuts,"  quoth  she. 
Up,  away  the  frisky  squirrel  hies  — 
Golden  wood-lights  glancing  in  his  eyes  — 

And  adown  the  tree, 

Great  ripe  nuts,  kissed  brown  by  July  sun, 
In  the  little  lap,  dropped  one  by  one  — 
Hark  how  blackbird  pipes  to  see  the  fun ! 

"  Happy  Bell,"  pipes  he. 

Little  Bell  looked  up  and  down  the  glade  — 
"Squirrel,  squirrel,  if  you're  not  afraid, 

Come  and  share  with  me !" 
Down  came  squirrel  eager  for  his  fare  — 

328 


Down  came  bonny  blackbird,  I  declare ; 
Little  Bell  gave  each  his  honest  share  — 

Ah  the  merry  three ! 

And  the  while  these  frolic  playmates  twain 
Piped  and  frisked  from  bough  to  bough  again, 

'Neath  the  morning  skies, 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  out  in  happy  overflow, 

From  her  blue,  bright  eyes. 

By  her  snow-white  cot  at  close  of  day, 

Knelt  sweet  Bell,  with  folded  palms  to  pray  — 

Very  calm  and  clear 

Rose  the  praying  voice  to  where,  unseen, 
In  blue  heaven,  an  angel  shape  serene 

Paused  awhile  to  hear  — 
"What  good  child  is  this,"  the  angel  said, 
"  That  with  happy  heart,  beside  her  bed 

Prays  so  lovingly  ?  " 
Low  and  soft,  ah !  very  low  and  soft, 
Crooned  the  blackbird  in  the  orchard  loft 

"Bell,  dear  Bell!"  crooned  he. 

"  Whom  God's  creatures  love,"  the  angel  fair 
Murmured,  "God  doth  bless  with  angels'  care; 

Child,  thy  bed  shall  be 

Folded  safe  from  harm  —  Love,  deep  and  kind, 
Shall  watch  around  and  leave  good  gifts  behind, 

Little  Bell,  for  thee  !  " 

329 


CRADLE   SONG 

From  the  German 
ELIZABETH    PRENTISS 

§LEEP,  baby,  sleep ! 
Thy  father's  watching  the  sheep, 
Thy  mother's  shaking  the  dreamland  tree, 
And  down  drops  a  little  dream  for  thee. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 
The  large  stars  are  the  sheep, 
The  little  stars  are  the  lambs,  I  guess, 
The  bright  moon  is  the  shepherdess. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 
And  cry  not  like  a  sheep, 
Else  the  sheep-dog  will  bark  and  whine, 
And  bite  this  naughty  child  of  mine. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 
Thy  Saviour  loves  His  sheep ; 
He  is  the  Lamb  of  God  on  high 
Who  for  our  sakes  came  down  to  die. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 
330 


Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 
Away  to  tend  the  sheep, 
Away,  thou  sheep-dog  fierce  and  wild, 
And  do  not  harm  my  sleeping  child ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 


MILKING   TIME 

CHRISTINA    G.    ROSSETTI 

'HEN  the  cows  come  home  the  milk  is  coming; 
Honey's  made  while  the  bees  are  humming ; 
Duck  and  drake  on  the  rushy  lake, 
And  the  deer  live  safe  in  the  breezy  brake ; 
And  timid,  funny,  pert  little  bunny 
Winks  his  nose,  and  sits  all  sunny. 


TWIST   ME   A   CROWN 

CHRISTINA    G.    ROSSETTI 

fWIST  me  a  crown  of  wind-flowers; 
That  I  may  fly  away 
To  hear  the  singers  at  their  song, 
And  players  at  their  play. 

Put  on  your  crown  of  wind-flowers ; 

But  whither  would  you  go  ? 
Beyond  the  surging  of  the  sea 

And  the  storms  that  blow. 

Alas  !  your  crown  of  wind-flowers 

Can  never  make  you  fly ; 
I  twist  them  in  a  crown  to-day, 

And  to-night  they  die. 
332 


ETUDE   REALISTE 

ALGERNON    CHARLES    SWINBURNE 
I 

BABY'S  FEET 

S  BABY'S  feet,  like  sea-shells  pink, 
Might  tempt  should  Heaven  see  meet, 
An  angel's  lips  to  kiss,  we  think, 
A  baby's  feet. 

Like  rose-hued  sea-flowers  toward  the  heat 

They  stretch  and  spread  and  wink 
Their  ten  soft  buds  that  part  and  meet. 

No  flower-bells  that  expand  and  shrink, 

Gleam  half  so  heavenly  sweet 
As  shine  on  life's  untrodden  brink 
A  baby's  feet. 

ii 
BABY'S  HANDS 

A  baby's  hands,  like  rosebuds  furl'd, 

Whence  yet  no  leaf  expands, 
Ope  if  you  touch,  though  close  upcurl'd, 
A  baby's  hands. 
333 


Then,  even  as  warriors  grip  their  brands 

When  battle's  bolt  is  hurl'd, 
They  close,  clench'd  hard  like  tightening  bands. 

No  rosebuds  yet  by  dawn  impearl'd 

Match,  even  in  loveliest  lands, 
The  sweetest  flowers  in  all  the  world  — 
A  baby's  hands. 

in 
BABY'S  EYES 

A  baby's  eyes,  ere  speech  begin, 
Ere  lips  learn  words  or  sighs, 
Bless  all  things  bright  enough  to  win 
A  baby's  eyes. 

Love,  while  the  sweet  thing  laughs  and  lies, 

And  sleep  flows  out  and  in, 
Lies  perfect  in  their  Paradise. 

Their  glance  might  cast  out  pain  and  sin, 

Their  speech  make  dumb  the  wise, 
By  mute  glad  godhead  felt  within 
A  baby's  eyes. 


334 


WHITE   BUTTERFLIES 

ALGERNON    CHARLES    SWINBURNE 

[LY,  white  butterflies,  out  to  sea, 

Frail,  pale  wings  for  the  wind  to  try, 
Small  white  wings  that  we  scarce  can  see, 
Fly. 

Some  fly  light  as  a  laugh  of  glee, 
Some  fly  soft  as  a  long,  low  sigh ; 
All  to  the  haven  where  each  would  be, 
Fly. 


335 


BEFORE  THE   RAIN 

THOMAS    BAILEY   ALDRICH 

E   knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn, 

A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 
Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 
Into  the  vapoury  amethyst 

Of  marshes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens  — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in-  the  flowers, 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 

To  sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind  —  and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain ! 


336 


THE   VOICE    OF  THE   SEA 

THOMAS    BAILEY    ALDRICH 

N  the  hush  of  the  autumn  night 

I  hear  the  voice  of ,  the  sea, 
In  the  hush  of  the  autumn  night 

It  seems  to  say  to  me  — 
Mine  are  the  winds  above, 

Mine  are  the  caves  below, 
Mine  are  the  dead  of  yesterday 

And  the  dead  of  long  ago  ! 


And  I  think  of  the  fleet  that  sailed  - 

From  the  lovely  Gloucester  shore, 
I  think  of  the  fleet  that  sailed 

And  came  back  nevermore  ! 
My  eyes  are  filled  with  tears, 

And  my  heart  is  numb  with  woe  — 
It  seems  as  if  'twere  yesterday, 

And  it  all  was  long  ago ! 


337 


AUTUMN 

EMILY   DICKINSON 

fHE  morns  are  meeker  than  they  were, 
The  nuts  are  getting  brown ; 
The  berry's  cheek  is  plumper, 
The  rose  is  out  of  town. 

The  maple  wears  a  gayer  scarf, 
The  field  a  scarlet  gown. 
Lest  I  should  be  old-fashioned 
I'll  put  a  trinket  on. 

Copyright,  1890,  by  Roberts  Brothers. 


338 


THE   GRASS 

EMILY    DICKINSON 

fHE  grass  so  little  has  to  do, — 
A  sphere  of  simple  green, 
With  only  butterflies  to  brood, 
And  bees  to  entertain, 

And  stir  all  day  to  pretty  tunes 
The  breezes  fetch  along, 
And  hold  the  sunshine  in  its  lap 
And  bow  to  everything ; 

And  thread  the  dews  all  night,  like  pearls, 
And  make  itself  so  fine,  — 
A  duchess  were  too  common 
For  such  a  noticing. 

And  even  when  it  dies,  to  pass 
In  odors  so  divine, 
As  lowly  spices  gone  to  sleep, 
Or  amulets  of  pine. 

And  then  to  dwell  in  sovereign  barns, 
And  dream  the  days  away,  — 
The  grass  so  little  has  to  do, 
I  wish  I  were  the  hay. 

Copyright,  1890,  by  Roberts  Brothers. 
339 


A   DAY 

EMILY    DICKINSON 

'LL  tell  you  how  the  sun  rose, — 

A  ribbon  at  a  time. 
The  steeples  swam  in  amethyst, 
The  news  like  squirrels  ran. 

The  hills  untied  their  bonnets, 
The  bobolinks  begun. 
Then  said  I  softly  to  myself, 
"  That  must  have  been  the  sun !  " 

But  how  he  set  I  know  not, 
There  seemed  a  purple  stile 
Which  little  yellow  boys  and  girls 
Were  climbing  all  the  while. 

Till  when  they  reached  the  other  side, 
A  dominie  in  gray 
Put  gently  up  the  evening  bars, 
And  led  the  flock  away. 

Copyright,  1890,  by  Roberts  Brothers. 


340 


FOUR-LEAF   CLOVER 

ELLA   HIGGINSON 

KNOW  a  place  where  the  sun  is  like  gold, 

And  the  cherry  blooms  burst  with  snow, 
And  down  underneath  is  the  loveliest  nook, 
Where  the  four-leaf  clovers  grow. 

One  leaf  is  for  hope,  and  one  is  for  faith, 

And  one  is  for  love,  you  know, 
And  God  put  another  in  for  luck  — 

If  you  search,  you  will  find  where  they  grow. 

But  you  must  have  hope,  and  you  must  have  faith, 
You  must  love  and  be  strong  —  and  so  — 

If  you  work,  if  you  wait,  you  will  find  the  place 
Where  the  four-leaf  clovers  grow. 


341 


BESIDE   THE   SEA 

ELLA    HIGGINSON 


the  fishers'  sails  drift  out 
]SJ     Upon  the  ocean's  breast, 
But  nightly,  like  white  courier  doves, 
They  all  come  home  to  rest. 


342 


CRADLE-SONG   OF   THE   FISHERMAN'S 
WIFE 

ELLA    HIGGINSON 

§WUNG  in  the  hollows  of  the  deep, 
While  silver  stars  their  watches  keep, 
Sleep,  my  seabird,  sleep  ! 
Our  boat  the  glistening  fishes  fill, 
Our  prow  turns  homeward  —  hush,  be  still. 
Sleep,  my  seabird,  sleep  — 
Sleep,  sleep. 

The  wind  is  springing  from  out  the  West, 
Nestle  thee  deeper  in  mother's  breast, 

Rest,  my  seabird,  rest ! 
There  is  no  sea  our  boat  could  whelm 
Wrhile  thy  brave  father  is  at  the  helm, 

Rest,  my  seabird,  rest  — 
Rest,  rest. 

The  foam  flies  past  us  like  beaten  cream, 
The  waves  break  over,  the  fierce  winds  scream, 

Dream,  my  seabird,  dream ! 
Dream  of  the  cot  where  high  and  low, 
Crimson  and  white,  the  roses  blow, 
Dream,  my  seabird,  dream  — 
Dream,  dream. 
343 


What  tho'  the  tempest  is  on  the  deep  ? 
Heaven  will  guard  thee  —  do  not  weep, 

Sleep,  my  seabird,  sleep  ! 
Be  brave  as  a  fisherman's  child  should  be, 
Rocked  in  the  hollows  of  the  sea, 

Sleep,  my  seabird,  sleep  — 
Sleep,  sleep. 


344 


A   FAIRY'S   LOVE-SONG 

ELLA   HIGGINSON 

§H,  fireflies,  fireflies,  light  all  your  candles, 
For  down,  deep  down  in  the  sea's  wet  bed, 
The  wise  little  fishes  have  lighted  their  lanterns, 
And  luminous  jelly-fish  tents  are  spread. 

I  know  not  the  way  that  my  sweetheart  is  coming, 

Over  the  mountain  or  vale  or  sea, 
But  if  o'er  the  water,  I  know  that  the  fishes 

Swing  tiny  gold  lanterns  to  light  him  to  me. 

The  nights  are  deceptive  and  dangers  are  lurking  — 

Fireflies,  fireflies,  trim  every  lamp ! 
And  red  little  glow-worms,  keep  watch  in  the  marshes, 

Down  where  the  highways  are  dark  and  damp. 

For  he  may  come  over  the  purple-rimmed  mountain, 

Riding  astride  of  a  buffeted  leaf ; 
Or  over  the  sea  on  a  gull's  snowy  feather 

That  any  wild  hour  may  be  dashed  on  a  reef ! 

And  heaven,  dear  heaven,  in  each  of  thy  windows 
Set  a  star  burning  —  I  know  not  the  day, 

Or  the  night,  or  the  hour,  that  my  sweetheart  is  coming, 
So  light  him  and  guide  him  upon  his  way. 

345 


THE   CURE'S   PROGRESS 

AUSTIN    DOBSON 

ONSIEUR  the  Cure  down  the  street 

Comes  with  his  kind  old  face,  — 
With  his  coat  worn  bare,  and  his  straggling  hair, 
And  his  green  umbrella-case. 

You  may  see  him  pass  by  the  little  "  Grande  Place" 

And  the  tiny  "  Hotel -de-  Ville  "  ; 
He  smiles  as  he  goes,  to  tt\t  fleuriste  Rose, 

And  the  pompier  Theophile. 

He  turns,  as  a  rule,  through  the  " March*?"  cool, 

Where  the  noisy  fish-wives  call ; 
And  his  compliments  pays  to  the  "  belle  ThJrhe" 

As  she  sits  in  her  dusky  stall. 

There's  a  letter  to  drop  at  the  locksmith's  shop, 

And  Toto,  the  locksmith's  niece, 
Has  jubilant  hopes,  for  the  Cure  gropes 

In  his  tail  for  a  pain  d'epice. 

There's  a  little  dispute  with  a  merchant  of  fruit, 

Who  is  said  to  be  heterodox, 
That  will  ended  be  with  a  "mafoi,  oui!" 

And  a  pinch  from  the  Cure's  box. 
346 


There  is  also  a  word  that  no  one  heard 

To  the  furrier's  daughter  Lou  ; 
And  a  pale  cheek  fed  with  a  flickering  red, 

And  a  "  Bon  Dieu  garde  M'sieu  !  " 

But  a  grander  way  for  the  sous-Prtfet, 

And  a  bow  for  Ma'am'selle  Anne  ; 
And  a  mock  "  off-hat "  to  the  Notary's  cat, 

And  a  nod  to  the  Sacristan. 

For  ever  through  life  the  Cure  goes 
With  a  smile  on  his  kind  old  face,  — 

With  his  coat  worn  bare,  and  his  straggling  hair, 
And  his  green  umbrella-case. 


347 


AN   APRIL   PASTORAL 

AUSTIN    DOBSON 

He. 


away,  fair  Neat-herdess  ? 
W     She.  Shepherd,  I  go  to  tend  my  kine. 
He.    Stay  thou,  and  watch  this  flock  of  mine. 
She.  With  thee  ?  nay,  that  were  idleness. 
He.    Thy  kine  will  pasture  none  the  less. 
She.  Not  so  :  they  wait  me  and  my  sign. 
He.    I'll  pipe  to  thee  beneath  the  pine. 
She.  Thy  pipe  will  soothe  not  their  distress. 
He.    Dost  thou  not  hear  beside  the  spring 

How  the  gay  birds  are  carolling  ? 
She.  I  hear  them.     But  it  may  not  be. 
He.    Farewell  then,  Sweetheart  !     Farewell  now. 
She.  Shepherd,  farewell  —     Where  goest  thou  ? 
He.    I  go  ...  to  tend  thy  kine  for  thee  ! 


348 


DARBY   AND   JOAN 

FREDERIC    EDWARD    WEATHERLY 

dear,  we  are  old  and  gray, 
Fifty  years  since  our  wedding  day, 
Shadow  and  sun  for  every  one 
As  the  years  roll  on  ; 
Darby  dear,  when  the  world  went  wry, 
Hard  and  sorrowful  then  was  I  — 
Ah  !  lad,  how  you  cheered  me  then, 
"  Things  will  be  better,  sweet  wife,  again !  " 
Always  the  same,  Darby  my  own, 
Always  the  same  to  your  old  wife  Joan. 

Darby,  dear,  but  my  heart  was  wild 
When  we  buried  our  baby  child, 
Until  you  whispered  "  Heav'n  knows  best !  " 
And  my  heart  found  rest ; 
Darby,  dear,  'twas  your  loving  hand 
Showed  the  way  to  the  better  land  — 
Ah  !  lad,  as  you  kiss'd  each  tear, 
Life  grew  better,  and  Heaven  more  near. 
Always  the  same,  Darby  my  own, 
Always  the  same  to  your  old  wife  Joan. 
349 


Hand  in  hand  when  our  life  was  May, 

Hand  in  hand  when  our  hair  is  gray, 

Shadow  and  sun  for  every  one, 

As  the  years  roll  on ; 

Hand  in  hand  when  the  long  night-tide 

Gently  covers  us  side  by  side  — 

Ah !  lad,  though  we  know  not  when, 

Love  will  be  with  us  forever  then  : 

Always  the  same,  Darby,  my  own, 

Always  the  same  to  your  old  wife  Joan. 


35° 


MY    SHADOW 

ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 

HAVE  a  little  shadow  that  goes  in  and  out  with  me, 
And  what  can  be  the  use  of  him  is  more  than  I  can 

see. 

He  is  very,  very  like  me  from  the  heels  up  to  the  head ; 
And  I  see  him  jump  before  me  when  I  jump  into  my 
bed. 

The  funniest   thing  about  him  is  the  way  he  likes  to 

grow  — 
Not  at  all  like  proper  children,  which  is  always  very 

slow ; 
For  he  sometimes  shoots  up  taller  like  an  india-rubber 

ball, 
And  he  sometimes  gets  so  little  that  there's  none  of  him 

at  all. 

He  hasn't  got  a  notion  of  how  children  ought  to  play, 
And  can  only  make  a  fool  of  me  in  every  sort  of  way. 
He  stays  so  close  beside  me,  he's  a  coward,  you  can  see ; 
I'd  think  shame  to  stick  to  nursie  as  that  shadow  sticks 
to  me  ! 

One  morning,  very  early,  before  the  sun  was  up, 
I  rose  and  found  the  shining  dew  on  every  buttercup ; 
But  my  lazy  little  shadow,  like  an  arrant  sleepy-head, 
Had  stayed  at  home  behind  me  and  was  fast  asleep  in 
bed. 

35 * 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 

Y  tea  is  nearly  ready  and  the  sun  has  left  the  sky  ; 
It's  time  to  take  the  window  to  see  Leerie  going 

by; 

For  every  night  at  tea  time  and  before  you  take  your 

seat, 
With  lantern  and  with  ladder  he  comes  posting  up  the 

street. 

Now  Tom  would  be  a  driver  and  Maria  go  to  sea, 
And  my  Papa's  a  banker  and  as  rich  as  he  can  be ; 
But  I,  when  I  am  stronger  and  can  choose  what  I'm  to 

do, 
O  Leerie,  I'll  go  round  at  night  and  light  the  lamps 

with  you ! 

For  we  are  very  lucky  with  a  lamp  before  the  door, 
And  Leerie  stops  to  light  it  as  he  lights  so  many  more ; 
And  O!    before  you    hurry  by  with    ladder   and  with 

light, 
O  Leerie,  see  a  little  child  and  nod  to  him  to-night ! 


352 


BED  IN  SUMMER 

ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 

N  winter  I  get  up  at  night 

And  dress  by  yellow  candle-light. 
In  summer,  quite  the  other  way, 
I  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day. 


I  have  to  go  to  bed  and  see 
The  birds  still  hopping  on  the  tree, 
Or  hear  the  grown-up  people's  feet 
Still  going  past  me  in  the  street. 

And  does  it  not  seem  hard  to  you 
When  all  the  sky  is  clear  and  blue, 
And  I  should  like  so  much  to  play, 
To  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day  ? 


353 


SINGING 

ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 

®F  speckled  eggs  the  birdie  sings 
And  nests  among  the  trees ; 
The  sailor  sings  of  ropes  and  things 
In  ships  upon  the  seas. 

The  children  sing  in  far  Japan, 
The  children  sing  in  Spain ; 

The  organ  with  the  organ  man 
Is  singing  in  the  rain. 


354 


PART  SECOND 


QUEEN  ALCESTIS  AND  THE  GOD  OF  LOVE 

From  THE  LEGEND  OF  GOOD  WOMEN  ' 
GEOFFREY    CHAUCER 

FELL  asleep,  and  slept  an  hour  or  two, 

Me  met  how  I  lay  in  the  meadow  tho, 
To  seen  this  flower,  that  I  loved  so  and  drede ; 
And  from  afar  came  walking  in  the  mede 
The  God  of  Love,  and  in  his  hand  a  queen, 
And  she  was  clad  in  royal  habit  green, 
A  fret  of  gold  she  hadde  next  her  hair, 
And  upon  that  a  white  crowne  she  bear, 
With  flowrouns  small,  and  (that)  I  shall  not  lie, 
For  all  the  world  right  as  a  dayesye 
Ycrowned  is,  with  white  leaves  lite, 
So  were  the  flowrouns  of  her  crowne  white, 
For  of  o'  perle,  fine,  oriental, 
Her  white  crowne  was  ymaked  all, 
For  which  the  white  crown  above  the  green 
Made  her  like  a  daisy  for  to  seem, 
Considered  eke  her  fret  of  gold  above. 
Yclothed  was  this  mighty  God  of  Love 
In  silk,  embroided  full  of  grene  greves, 
In  with  a  fret  of  rede  rose  leaves, 
357 


The  freshest  since  the  world  was  first  begun, 
His  gilte  hair  was  crowned  with  a  sun, 
Instead  of  gold,  for  heaviness  and  weight, 
Therewith,  me  thought,  his  face  shone  so  bright 
That  well  unneathes  might  I  him  behold, 
And  in  his  hand,  me  thought  I  saw  him  hold 
Two  fiery  dartes,  as  the  gledes  red, 
And  angelike  his  winge's  saw  I  spread. 
And  by  the  hand  he  held  this  noble  queen, 
Crowned  with  white,  and  clothed  all  in  green, 
So  womanly,  so  benign,  and  so  meek, 
That  in  this  world  though  that  men  woulde  seek, 
Half  of  her  beauty  shouldexthey  not  find 
In  creature  that  formed  is  by  kind. 
And  therefore  may  I  sayn,  as  thinketh  me, 
This  song  in  praising  of  this  lady  free. 


358 


DAME   NATURE   CROWNS   THE   SCOTTISH 
LION    KING   OF   BEASTS 

From  THE  THISTLE  AND  THE  ROSE 
WILLIAM   DUNBAR 

NATURE  ordered  every  bird  and  beast 
Before  her  Highness  should  anon  compear, 
And  every  flower  of  virtue,  most  and  least, 
And  every  herb  by  field,  or  far  or  near, 
As  they  had  wont  in  May,  from  year  to  year, 
To  her  their  Maker  to  make  obedience, 
Full  low  inclining  with  due  reverence. 

All  present  were  in  twinkling  of  an  e'e, 

Both  beast  and  bird  and  flower,  before  the  Queen. 

And  first  the  Lion,  greatest  of  degree, 

Was  called  there ;  and  he  most  fair  to  seen, 
With  a  full  hardy  countenance,  and  keen, 

Before  Dame  Nature  came,  and  did  incline, 

With  visage  bold  and  courage  leonine. 

This  awful  beast  full  terrible  was  of  cheer, 

Piercing  of  look,  and  stout  of  countenance, 
Right  strong  of  corpse,  of  fashion  fair  but  fear, 

359 


Lusty  of  shape,  light  of  deliverance, 
Red  of  his  colour  as  is  the  ruby  glance ; 

On  field  of  gold  he  stood  full  mightily, 

With  fleur-de-lys  encircled  lustily. 

This  Lady  lifted  up  his  clawes  clear, 
And  let  him  listly  lean  upon  her  knee ; 

And  crowned  him  with  diadem  full  dear 
Of  radiant  stones  most  royal  for  to  see, 
Saying,  "  The  King  of  Beastes  make  I  thee, 

And  the  protector  chief  in  woods  and  shaws  ; 

To  thy  lieges  go  forth,  and  keep  the  laws. 

"  Exerce  justice  with  mercy  and  conscience ; 
And  let  no  small  beast  suffer  scaith  nor  scorns 

Of  great  beastes  that  been  of  more  puissance ; 
Do  law  alike  to  apes  and  unicorns  : 
And  let  no  bogle  with  his  busteous  horns 

The  meek  plough-ox  oppress,  for  all  his  pride, 

But  in  the  yoke  go  peaceable  him  beside." 


360 


TO   MISTRESS   MARGARET   HUSSEY 

JOHN    SKELTON 

ERRY  Margaret, 

As  midsummer  flower, 
Gentle  as  falcon, 
Or  hawk  of  the  tower ; 
With  solace  and  gladness, 
Much  mirth  and  no  madness, 
All  good  and  no  badness ; 
So  joyously, 
So  maidenly, 
So  womanly, 
Her  demeaning, 
In  everything, 
Far,  far  passing, 
That  I  can  indite, 
Or  suffice  to  write, 
Of  merry  Margaret, 
As  midsummer  flower, 
Gentle  as  falcon 
Or  hawk  of  the  tower. 
As  patient  and  as  still, 
And  as  full  of  good-will, 
361 


As  fair  Isiphil, 

Coliander, 

Sweet  Pomander, 

Good  Cassander ; 

Steadfast  of  thought, 

Well  made,  well  wrought. 

Far  may  be  sought, 

Ere  you  can  find 

So  courteous,  so  kind, 

As  merry  Margaret, 

This  midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon, 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower. 


362 


LORD    RONALD 

OLD    BALLAD 

ha'e  ye  been,  Lord  Ronald,  my  son  ? 
>/  O  where  ha'e  ye  been,  my  handsome  young  man  ?  " 
"  I  ha'e  been  to  the  wood ;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I'm  weary  wi'  hunting,  and  fain  would  lie  down." 

"  Where  gat  ye  your  dinner,  Lord  Ronald,  my  son  ? 
Where  gat  ye  your  dinner,  my  handsome  young  man  ?  " 
"  I  dined  wi'  my  love  ;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I'm  weary  wi'  hunting,  and  fain  would  lie  down/' 

"  What  gat  ye  to  dinner,  Lord  Ronald,  my  son  ? 
What  gat  ye  to  dinner,  my  handsome  young  man  ?  " 
"  I  gat  eels  boil'd  in  broo ;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I'm  weary  wi'  hunting,  and  fain  would  lie  down." 

"And  where  are  your  bloodhounds,  Lord  Ronald,  my 

son  ? 
And  where  are  your  bloodhounds,  my  handsome  young 

man  ? " 
"  O  they  swell'd  and  they  died ;  mother,  make  my  bed 

soon, 
For  I'm  weary  wi'  hunting,  and  fain  would  lie  down." 

"  O  I  fear  ye  are  poison'd,  Lord  Ronald,  my  son ! 
O  I  fear  ye  are  poison'd,  my  handsome  young  man ! " 
"  O  yes,  I  am  poison'd !  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I'm  sick  at  the  heart,  and  I  fain  would  lie  down." 

363 


THE   GARDENER 

BALLAD 

fHE  gard'ner  stands  in  his  bower  door, 
Wi'  a  primrose  in  his  hand, 
And  by  there  cam'  a  maiden, 
As  jimp  as  a  willow  wand. 

"  O  lady,  can  ye  fancy  me, 

For  to  be  my  bride  ? 
Ye'se  get  a'  the  flowers  in  my  garden 

To  be  to  you  a  weed. 

"The  lily  white  s'all  be  your  smock ; 

It  becomes  your  bodie  best ; 
Your  head  s'all  be  buskt  wi'  gilly  flower, 

Wi'  the  primrose  in  your  breast. 

"  Your  gown  shall  be  the  sweet-william  ; 

Your  coat  the  camovine  ; 
Your  aprons  o'  the  salads  neat, 

That  taste  baith  sweet  and  fine. 

"  Your  hose  s'all  be  the  brade  kail-blade, 
That  is  baith  brade  and  lang ; 

Narrow,  narrow,  at  the  cute ; 
And  brade,  brade  at  the  brawn. 
364 


"  Your  gloves  s'all  be  the  marigold, 

All  glittering  to  your  hand, 
Weel  spread  o'er  wi'  the  blue  blaewort, 

That  grows  amang  corn-land." 

"  O  fare  ye  well,  young  man,"  she  says, 
"  Farewell,  and  I  bid  adieu  ; 

If  you  can  fancy  me,"  she  says, 
"  I  cannot  fancy  you." 


365 


GLENLOGIE 

BALLAD 

fHREESCORE  o'  nobles  rade  to  the  king's  ha', 
But  bonnie  Glenlogie's  the  flower  o'  them  a' ; 
Wi'  his  milk-white  steed  and  his  bonnie  black  e'e, 
"  Glenlogie,  dear  mither,  Glenlogie  for  me  !  " 

"  O  hand  your  tongue,  dochter,  ye'll  get  better  than  he." 
"  O  say  na  sae,  mither,  for  that  canna  be ; 
Though  Drumlie  is  richer,  and  greater  than  he, 
Yet  if  I  maun  lo'e  him,  I'll  certainly  dee." 

"  Where  will  I  get  a  bonnie  boy,  to  win  hose  and  shoon, 
Will  gae  to  Glenlogie,  and  come  again  soon  ? " 
4i  O  here  am  I,  a  bonnie  boy,  to  win  hose  and  shoon, 
Will  gae  to  Glenlogie,  and  come  again  soon." 

When  he  gaed  to  Glenlogie,  'twas  "  Wash  and  go  dine ;  " 
'  Tvvas  "Wash  ye,  my  pretty  boy,  wash  and  go  dine." 
"  O  'twas  ne'er  my  father's  fashion,  and  it  ne'er  shall 

be  mine, 
To  gar  a  lady's  errand  wait  till  I  dine." 

"  But  there  is,  Glenlogie,  a  letter  for  thee." 
The  first  line  he  read,  a  low  smile  ga'e  he ; 
The  next  line  he  read,  the  tear  blindit  his  e'e ; 
But  the  last  line  he  read,  he  gart  the  table  flee. 

366 


"  Gar  saddle  the  black  horse,  gar  saddle  the  brown ; 
Gar  saddle  the  swiftest  steed  e'er  rade  frae  town ; " 
But  lang  ere  the  horse  was  brought  round  to  the  green, 
O  bonnie  Glenlogie  was  twa  mile  his  lane. 

When  he  cam'  to  Glenfeldy's  door,  sma'  mirth  was  there ; 
Bonnie  Jean's  mother  was  tearing  her  hair ; 
"  Ye're  welcome,  Glenlogie,  ye're  welcome,"  said  she, 
"  Ye're  welcome,  Glenlogie,  your  Jeanie  to  see." 

Pale  and  wan  was  she,  when  Glenlogie  gaed  ben, 
But  red  rosy  grew  she  whene'er  he  sat  down ; 
She  turned  awa'  her  head,  but  the  smile  was  in  her  e'e ; 
"  O  binna  feared,  mither,  I'll  maybe  no  dee." 


367 


LORD    LOVEL 

OLD    BALLAD 

J2  ORD  LOVEL  he  stood  at  his  castle  gate, 
UK     Combing  his  milk-white  steed, 
When  up  came  Lady  Nancy  Belle, 

To  wish  her  lover  good  speed,  speed, 

To  wish  her  lover  good  speed. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Lord  Lovel  ?  "  she  said, 
"  Oh,  where  are  you  going  ?  "  said  she ; 

"  I'm  going,  my  Lady  Nancy  Belle, 
Strange  countries  for  to  see,  to  see, 
Strange  countries  for  to  see !  " 

"  When  will  you  be  back,  Lord  Lovel  ?  "  she  said ; 

"  Oh,  when  will  you  come  back  ?  "  said  she. 
"  In  a  year  or  two,  or  three,  at  the  most, 

I'll  return  to  my  fair  Nancy  —  cy, 

I'll  return  to  my  fair  Nancy." 

But  he  had  not  been  gone  a  year  and  a  day, 
Strange  countries  for  to  see, 

When  languishing  thoughts  came  into  his  head, 
Lady  Nancy  Belle  he  would  go  see,  see, 
Lady  Nancy  Belle  he  would  go  see. 

368 


So  he  rode,  and  he  rode  on  his  milk-white  steed, 
Till  he  came  to  London  town, 

And  there  he  heard  St.  Pancras'  bells 

And  the  people  all  mourning  round,  round, 
And  the  people  all  mourning  round. 

"  Oh,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  Lord  Lovel  he  said, 
"  Oh,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  he. 

"  A  lord's  lady  is  dead,"  a  woman  replied, 
"And  some  call  her  Lady  Nanc^  —  cy, 
And  some  call  her  Lady  Nanc^." 

So  he  ordered  the  grave  to  be  opened  wide, 
And  the  shroud  he  turned  down, 

And  there  he  kissed  her  clay-cold  lips, 
Till  the  tears  came  trickling  down,  down, 
Till  the  tears  came  trickling  down. 

Lady  Nancy  she  died,  as  it  might  be,  to-day, 
Lord  Lovel  he  died  as  to-morrow ; 

Lady  Nancy  she  died  out  of  pure,  pure  grief, 
Lord  Lovel  he  died  out  of  sorrow,  sorrow, 
Lord  Lovel  he  died  out  of  sorrow. 

Lady  Nancy  was  laid  in  St.  Pancras'  church, 

Lord  Lovel  was  laid  in  the  choir ; 
And  out  of  her  bosom  there  grew  a  red  rose, 

And  out  of  her  lover's  a  brier,  brier, 

And  out  of  her  lover's  a  brier. 

369 


They  grew,  and  they  grew,  to  the  church  steeple  top, 
And  then  they  could  grow  no  higher ; 

So  there  they  entwined  in  a  true-lover's  knot, 
For  all  lovers  true  to  admire  —  mire, 
For  all  lovers  true  to  admire. 


370 


THE  BAILIFF'S  DAUGHTER  OF  ISLINGTON 

OLD    BALLAD 

fHERE  was  a  youth,  and  a  well-beloved  youth, 
And  he  was  a  squire's  son ; 
He  loved  a  bailiff's  daughter  dear, 
That  lived  in  Islington. 

Yet  she  was  coy,  and  would  not  believe 

That  he  did  love  her  so, 
No,  nor  at  any  time  would  she 

Any  countenance  to  him  show. 

But  when  his  friends  did  understand 

His  fond  and  foolish  mind, 
They  sent  him  up  to  fair  London, 

An  apprentice  for  to  bind. 

And  when  he  had  been  seven  long  years, 

And  never  his  love  could  see,  — 
"  Many  a  tear  have  I  shed  for  her  sake, 

When  she  little  thought  of  me !  " 

Then  all  the  maids  of  Islington 

Went  forth  to  sport  and  play, 
All  but  the  bailiff's  daughter  dear  — 

She  secretly  stole  away. 


She  pulled  off  her  gown  of  green, 

And  put  on  ragged  attire, 
And  to  fair  London  she  would  go 

Her  true  love  to  enquire. 

And  as  she  went  along  the  road, 
The  weather  being  hot  and  dry, 

She  sat  her  down  on  a  grassy  bank, 
And  her  true  love  came  riding  by. 

She  started  up,  with  a  colour  so  red, 
Catching  hold  of  his  bridle-rein  : 

"  One  penny,  one  penny,  kind  sir,"  she  said, 
"Would  ease  me  of  much  pain." 

"  Before  I  give  you  one  penny,  sweetheart, 
Pray  tell  me  where  were  you  born." 

"  At  Islington,  kind  sir,"  said  she, 

"  Where  I  have  had  many  a  scorn." 

"  I  prithee,  sweetheart,  then  tell  to  me, 

O  tell  me  whether  you  know 
The  bailiff's  daughter  of  Islington  ?  " 

"  She  is  dead,  sir,  long  ago." 

"  If  she  be  dead,  then  take  my  horse, 

My  saddle  and  bridle  also ; 
For  I'll  sail  away  for  some  far  country 

Where  no  man  shall  me  know." 
372 


"  O  stay,  good  youth  !     O  look,  dear  love  ! 

She  standeth  by  thy  side ; 
She's  here  alive,  she  is  not  dead, 

She's  ready  to  be  thy  bride." 

"  O  farewell  grief,  and  welcome  joy, 
Ten  thousand  times,  therefore  ! 

For  now  I  have  found  mine  own  true  love, 

Whom  I  thought  I  should  never  see  more." 


373 


DESCRIPTION   OF   SPRING 

EARL    OF    SURREY 

fHE  sweet  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings, 
With  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale ; 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings ; 

The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale. 
Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs ; 

The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale ; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  flings ; 

The  fishes  float  with  new-repaired  scale ; 
The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  flings ; 

The  swift  swallow  pursues  the  flies  small ; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings ; 

Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flowers'  bale. 
And  thus  I  see,  among  these  pleasant  things, 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs. 


374 


THE   AGE   OF   CHILDREN    HAPPIEST 

IF  THEY  HAD  STILL  WIT  TO  UNDERSTAND  IT 
EARL  OF  SURREY 

TJ  AID  in  my  quiet  bed  in  study  as  I  were, 

1M    I  saw  within  my  troubled  head  a  heap  of  thoughts 

appear, 

And  every  thought  did  show  so  lively  in  mine  eyes, 
That   now  I   sigh'd,   and  then   I   smiled,   as  cause   of 

thoughts  did  rise. 

I  saw  the  little  boy,  in  thought  how  oft  that  he 
Did  wish  of  God,  to  'scape  the  rod,  a  tall  young  man 

to  be, 
The   young  man  eke  that   feels  his  bones  with  pain 

opprest, 

How  he  would  be  a  rich  old  man,  to  live  and  lie  at  rest ! 
The  rich  old  man  that  sees  his  end  draw  on  so  sore, 
How  would  he  be  a  boy  again  to  live  so  much  the  more. 
Whereat  full  oft  I  smiled,  to  see  how  all  those  three, 
From  boy  to  man,  from  man  to  boy,  would  chop  and 

change  degree. 


375 


SONG  — WAKE   NOW,    MY   LOVE,  AWAKE 

From  EPITHALAMION 
EDMUND    SPENSER 

'AKE  now,  my  Love,  awake  !  for  it  is  time  ; 

The  rosy  morn  long  since  left  Tithone's  bed, 
All  ready  to  her  silver  coach  to  climb, 
And  Phoebus  'gins  to  show  his  glorious  head. 
Hark !  how  the  cheerful  birds  do  chaunt  their  lays, 
And  carol  of  love's  praise : 
The  merry  lark  her  matins  sings  aloft ; 
The  thrush  replies ;  the  mavis  descant  plays ; 
The  ouzell  shrills  ;  the  ruddock  warbles  soft : 
So  goodly  all  agree,  with  sweet  consent, 
To  this  day's  merriment. 

Ah  !  my  dear  Love,  why  do  ye  sleep  thus  long, 
When  meeter  were  that  ye  should  now  awake, 
T'await  the  coming  of  your  joyous  make, 
And  hearken  to  the  birds'  love-learned  song, 
The  dewy  leaves  among ! 
For  they  of  joy  and  pleasance  to  you  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  their  echo  ring. 


376 


THE    BRIDE 

From   EPITHALAMION 
EDMUND    SPENSER 

T%  O !  where  she  comes  along  with  portly  pace, 

JH   Like  Phoebe,  from  her  chamber  of  the  East, 

Arising  forth  to  run  her  mighty  race, 

Clad  all  in  white,  that  seems  a  virgin  best. 

So  well  it  her  beseems,  that  ye  would  ween 

Some  angel  she  had  been. 

Her  long  loose  yellow  locks  like  golden  wire, 

Sprinkled  with  perl,  and  perling  flowers  between 

Do  like  a  golden  mantle  her  attire. 

And,  being  crowned  with  a  girland  green 

Seem  like  some  maiden  queen. 

Her  modest  eyes,  abashed  to  behold 

So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare, 

Upon  the  lowly  ground  affixed  are, 

Nor  dare  lift  up  her  countenance  too  bold, 

But  blush  to  hear  her  praises  sung  so  loud, 

So  far  from  being  proud. 

Ne'th'less,  do  ye  still  loud  her  praises  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 


377 


CUPID   AND   THE    BEE 

EDMUND    SPENSER 

®PON  a  day,  as  Love  lay  sweetly  slumb'ring 
All  in  his  mother's  lap, 
A  gentle  Bee,  with  his  loud  trumpet  murm'ring, 

About  him  flew  by  hap. 
Whereof  when  he  was  wakened  with  the  noise, 

And  saw  the  beast  so  small, 

"  What's  this,"  quoth  he,  "that  gives  so  great  a  voice, 
That  wakens  men  withal  ?  " 
In  angry  wise  he  flies  about, 
And  threatens  all  with  courage  stout. 

To  whom  his  mother,  closely  smiling,  said, 

'Twixt  earnest  and  'twixt  game : 
"  See  !  thou  thyself  likewise  art  little  made, 

If  thou  regard  the  same. 
And  yet  thou  suff'rest  neither  gods  in  sky, 

Nor  man  in  earth,  to  rest ; 
But  when  thou  art  disposed  cruelly, 
Their  sleep  thou  dost  molest. 
Then  either  change  thy  cruelty, 
Or  give  like  leave  unto  the  fly." 
378 


Ne'theless,  the  cruel  boy,  not  so  content, 

Would  needs  the  fly  pursue, 
And  in  his  hand,  with  heedless  hardiment, 

Him  caught  for  to  subdue. 
But  when  on  it  he  hasty  hand  did  lay, 

The  Bee  him  stung  therefore  : 
"  Now  out,  alas,"  he  cried,  "  and  well-away 

I  wounded  am  full  sore ; 

The  fly,  that  I  so  much  did  scorn, 
Hath  hurt  me  with  his  little  horn." 


379 


DIAPHENIA 

HENRY    CONSTABLE 

SUAPHENIA,  like  the  daffadowndilly, 
L£s   White  as  the  sun,  fair  as  the  lily, 
Heigh  ho,  how  I  do  love  thee  ! 

I  do  love  thee  as  my  lambs 

Are  beloved  of  their  dams ; 
How  blest  were  I  if  thou  wouldst  prove  me ! 

Diaphenia,  like  the  spreading  roses, 
That  in  thy  sweets  all  sweets  encloses, 

Fair  sweet,  how  I  do  love  thee ! 
I  do  love  thee  as  each  flower 
Loves  the  sun's  life-giving  power ; 

For  dead,  thy  breath  to  life  might  move  me. 

Diaphenia,  like  to  all  things  blessed 
When  all  thy  praises  are  expressed, 

Dear  joy,  how  I  do  love  thee ! 
As  the  birds  do  love  the  Spring, 
Or  the  bees  their  careful  king : 

Then  in  requite,  sweet  virgin,  love  me. 


380 


DAMELUS'    SONG   TO    HIS   FLOCK 

HENRY    CONSTABLE 

fEED  on,  my  flocks,  securely, 
Your  shepherd  watcheth  surely; 
Run  about,  my  little  lambs, 
Skip  and  wanton  with  your  dams, 

Your  loving  herd  with  care  will  tend  ye. 

Sport  on,  fair  flocks,  at  pleasure, 
Nip  Vesta's  flow'ring  treasure; 
I  myself  will  duly  hark, 
When  my  watchful  dog  doth  bark ; 
From  wolf  and  fox  I  will  defend  ye. 


381 


MENAPHON'S    ROUNDELAY 

From  MENAPHON 
ROBERT    GREENE 

WHEN  tender  ewes,  brought  home  with  evening  sun, 
Wend  to  their  folds, 

And  to  their  holds 
The  shepherds  trudge  when  light  of  day  is  done, 

Upon  a  tree 
The  eagle,  Jove's  fair  bird,  did  perch ; 

There  resteth  he  : 

A  little  fly  his  harbour  then  did  search, 
And  did  presume,  though  others  laughed  thereat, 
To  perch  whereas  the  princely  eagle  sat. 

The  eagle  frowned,  and  shook  his  royal  wings, 

And  charged  the  fly 

From  hence  to  hie : 
Afraid,  in  haste,  the  little  creature  flings, 

Yet  seeks  again, 
Fearful,  to  perch  him  by  the  eagle's  side : 

With  moody  vein, 

The  speedy  post  of  Ganymede  replied, 
"  Vassal,  avaunt,  of^with  my  wings  you  die ; 
Is't  fit  an  eagle  seat  him  with  a  fly  ? " 

382 


The  fly  craved  pity,  still  the  eagle  frowned : 

The  silly  fly, 

Ready  to  die, 
Disgraced,  displaced,  fell  grovelling  to  the  ground 

The  eagle  saw, 
And  with  a  royal  mind  said  to  the  fly, 

"  Be  not  in  awe  ; 

I  scorn  by  me  the  meanest  creature  die ; 
Then  seat  thee  here."     The  joyful  fly  up  flings, 
And  sate  safe  shadowed  with  the  eagle's  wings. 


383 


BORON'S   JIG 

From  MENAPHON 
ROBERT    GREENE 

fHROUGH  the  shrubs  as  I  'gan  crack 
For  my  lambs,  little  ones, 
'Mongst  many  pretty  ones,  — 
Nymphs  I  mean  whose  hair  was  black, 
As  the  crow ; 
Like  the  snow 

Her  face  and  browe's  shined,  I  ween  — 
I  saw  a  little  one, 
A  bonny  pretty  one, 
As  bright,  buxom,  and  as  sheen 
As  was  she 
On  her  knee 

That  lulled  the  god,  whose  arrow  warms 
Such  merry  little  ones, 
Such  fair-faced  pretty  ones 
As  dally  in  love's  chief est-harms  : 
Such  was  mine, 
Whose  gray  eyne 
Made  me  love.     I  'gan  to  woo 
This  sweet  little  one, 
This  bonny  pretty  one : 
384 


I  wooed  hard  a  day  or  two, 
Till  she  bade 
"  Be  not  sad, 

Woo  no  more,  I  am  thine  own, 
Thy  dearest  little  one, 
Thy  truest  pretty  "one." 
Thus  was  faith  and  firm  love  shown, 
As  behoves 
Shepherds'  loves. 


385 


THE   PASSIONATE   SHEPHERD   TO    HIS 
LOVE 

CHRISTOPHER    MARLOWE 

fOME  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields, 
Woods  or  steepy  mountain  yields. 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies  ; 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull, 
Fair-lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold ; 
386 


A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs : 
An  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

Thy  silver  dishes  for  thy  meat 
As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat, 
Shall  on  an  ivory  table  be 
Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 

The  shepherd-swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning  : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 


387 


NOTES 

PAGE 

3  MORNING 

Phixbus  :  or  Apollo,  the  sun  god. 

6  ARIEL'S  SONGS,  No.  II 

Whist :  silent. 
8  LULLABY  FOR  TITAN i A 

Philomel :  the  nightingale.     Philomela,  daughter  of  Pandion,  was 
said  to  have  been  changed  into  a  nightingale. 

10  THE  APPROACH  OF  THE  FAIRIES 

Hecate :  or  Proserpine,  Pluto's  queen,  whom  he  had  carried  off  to 

his  dark  realms. 
17  THE  NIGHTINGALE 

This  poem  is  given  as  it  appeared  inx "  England's  Helicon." 

King  Pandion  :  father  of  Philomela. 

21  SWEET  SUFFOLK  OWL 

Dight :  dressed  or  decked. 

23  A  WISH 

Fire  drake  :  a  fiery  dragon;   or  a  sort  of  fiery  meteor. 

24  CHARIS'  TRIUMPH 

Nard ':  the  shrub  called  spikenard,  famed  for  its  aromatic  scent. 

27  HYMN  TO  DIANA 

Diana  :  or  Cynthia,  the  moon  goddess. 
Hesperus :  the  evening  star. 

389 


PAGE 

29  To  PAN 

Pan :  god  of  shepherds,  huntsmen,  and  country  people. 

36  PRAISE  OF  CERES 
Cere s :  goddess  of  corn  and  harvests. 
Champians :  champaign,  open  country. 

37  THE  HUNTED  SQUIRREL 
A  sort:  a  company. 

Dray:  nest. 

38  THE  DESCRIPTION  OF  WALLA 

The  River  Walla,  a  tributary  of  the  Tavy,  is  personified  in  this 

poem. 
Diana  :  goddess  of  hunting. 

46  THE  BAG  OF  THE  BEE 

Cupids  :  little  Loves. 
Venus  :  mother  of  Love  or  Cupid. 

48  A  BALLAD  UPON  A  WEDDING 

This  poem  was  probably  addressed  to  Richard  Lovelace,  the  poet, 
describing  the  wedding  of  Lord  Broghill  with  Lady  Margaret 
Howard. 
54  THE  GRASSHOPPER 

Ganymede  :  cupbearer  of  the  gods. 
Phoebus  :  the  sun. 
57  SONGS — FROM  COMUS 

Comus  :  god  of  nocturnal  feasting  and  revelry. 

62  ODE  ON  SOLITUDE 

This  ode  was  written  when  the  author  was  about  twelve  years  old. 

63  MY  PEGGY 

Wawking  of  the  fauld  :  watching  of  the  fold.    The  lave  :  the  others. 
Gars:  makes.     Bauld:  bold.     Sic:  such. 

66  THE  NIGHTINGALE 

Clown :  an  ill-bred  countryman. 
390 


PAGE 

67  THE  SAILOR'S  WIFE 

Jauds :  probably  the  same  as  jade,  a  familiar  term  among  country 

folk  for  a  giddy  young  girl. 

Muckle :  great,  big.  Shoon :  shoes.  Slaes :  sloes,  a  black  wild 
plum.  Upon  the  bauk  :  one  version  says  "  into  the  crib,"  mean- 
ing in  the  coop.  Threw)  :  twist.  Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw :  make 
everything  look  fine.  Bigonet :  linen  cap.  Maun  :  must.  Baith  : 
both.  Leal:  loyal.  Caller:  fresh.  Greet:  weep. 

75  THE  Loss  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE 

The  Royal  George,  a  British  man-of-war,  was  overset  while  being 
repaired,  and  Rear  Admiral  Kempenfelt  and  all  on  board  were 
drowned.  This  occurred  at  Spithead,  August  29,  1782. 

84  ANNIE  LAURIE 
Gowan  :  wild  daisy. 

85  COMING  THROUGH  THE  RYE 
Gin  :  if.    Dinna  :  do  not.     Frae  :  from. 

87  HEY,  THE  DUSTY  MILLER 

Leeze  me  on  the  calling  :  what  a  fine  trade  it  is ! 

91  JOHN  ANDERSON 

Brent:   high  and   smooth.     Beld:    bald.     Pow :   head.     Canty: 

cheerful. 

94  THE  WINSOME  WEE  THING 

Neist :    next.       Tine :    be    lost.      Wrack :    vexation.      Warstle : 

wrestling. 
96  BANNOCKBURN 

The  battle  of  Bannockburn  was  fought  in  1314  ;  the  Scotch,  under 
Robert  Bruce,  defeating  the  English,  under 'Edward  II. 

131  AFTER  BLENHEIM 

The  English  and  Austrians,  under  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  and 
Prince  Eugene,  defeated  the  French  and  Bavarians  at  Blenheim, 
in  1704. 

134  BOAT  SONG 

Bourgeon  :  bud,  sprout. 

391 


PAGE 

145  PIBROCH  OF  DONALD  DHU 

This  ancient  pibroch,  or  martial  song  of  Clan  MacDonald,  is  thought 
to  refer  to  the  expedition  of  Donald  Balloch,  who,  in  1431,  in- 
vaded Lochaber,  and,  at  Inverlochy,  with  inferior  numbers, 
defeated  and  put  to  flight  the  Earls  of  Mar  and  Caithness. 

153  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  WATERLOO 

The  battle  of  Waterloo  was  fought  in  1815,  near  the  Belgian  vil- 
lage of  that  name;  the  English,  under  Wellington,  with  their 
Prussian  allies,  defeating  the  army  of  Napoleon. 

165  ROBIN  HOOD 

Morris :  a  dance  performed  with  bells,  castanets,  tambours,  etc. 
Grene  skawe  :  green  woods. 

1 72  GLENARA 

The  tradition  is  that  Maclean  of  Duart,  wishing  to  be  rid  of  his 
wife,  had  her  put  on  a  rock  in  the  sea,  to  be  washed  off  by  the 
waves,  and  then  announced  that  she  was  dead,  and  set  the  day 
for  the  funeral.  By  some  good  fortune  she  was  rescued  before 
that  day  and  restored  to  her  father  ;  her  relatives,  gathered  at 
the  mock  funeral,  avenged  her  by  killing  Maclean  and  throwing 
his  body  into  the  ready-made  grave. 

177  HOHENLINDEN 

The  battle  of  Hohenlinden  was  fought  in  1800;  the  Austrians, 
under  the  Archduke  John,  being  defeated  by  the  French  and 
Bavarians,  under  Moreau. 

1 86  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET 

This  poem  was  written  in  a  friendly  competition  with  Keats,  whose 
poem  on  the  same  subject  is  given  on  page  164. 

190  CHARLIE  is  MY  DARLING 

Grat :  wept.     Ilka :  every.     Owre  :  over.     Leal :  loyal. 

197  MY  AlN   COUNTREE 

Bairnies  :  children.     Tint :  lost.     Win  back  :  return. 
392 


PAGE 

212  IVRY 

Henry  of  Navarre  was  the  leader  of  the  Huguenot  or  Protestant 
party  in  France,  and  the  battle  of  Ivry,  in  1590,  was  one  of  the 
successes  which  secured  him  on  the  French  throne  as  Henry  IV. 

21 6  THE  OLD  SCOTTISH  CAVALIER 

The  Prince  :  Charles  Edward,  grandson  of  James  II,  and  "  Pre- 
tender" to  the  English  crown,  landed  on  the  Scotch  coast  in 
1745.  Friends  of  his  cause  gathered  about  him,  and  at  the  battle 
of  Preston  Pans  he  routed  the  English  army  that  was  sent  against 
him.  But  at  Culloden,  in  the  next  year,  he  was  overwhelmingly 
defeated,  and  this  event  was  the  end  of  the  active  hopes  of  the 
party  of  the  "  Scottish  Cavaliers,"  who  had  been  devoted  to  the 
Stuart  family  from  the  time  of  Charles  I's  misfortunes. 

220  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE 

Sir  John  Moore,  commanding  British  forces,  repulsed  the  French  at 
Corunna,  Spain,  in  1809,  but  was  killed  in  the  action,  and  buried 
that  night  by  the  English  before  they  embarked.  The  French 
built  him  a  tomb  at  Corunna,  with  this  inscription :  — 

JOHN  MOORE 

Leader  of  the  English  Armies 

Slain  in  Battle 

1809 

229  WILLIE  WINKIE 

Tirlin1 :  uncovering.  Weans :  children.  Ben :  in.  Singing 
thrums:  purring.  Spelder'd:  stretched  out.  Disna :  does  not. 
Cheep  :  chirp.  Waukrife  :  wakeful.  Winna  :  will  not.  Glow'- 
rirf  :  staring.  Skirlin'  :  screaming.  Kenna  :  know  not.  In 
a  creel:  beside  himself.  Ruggirf  :  pulling.  Lug:  ear.  Ravel- 
lin*  a  her  thrums  :  confusing  her  purring,  disturbing  it. 

236  SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN 

Marion  was  a  brilliant  partisan  leader  in  the  American  Revolution, 
whose  band  of  "  irregular "  fighters,  living  in  the  forests  and 
swamps  of  South  Carolina,  harassed  the  British  forces  operating  in 
that  region. 

393 


PAGE 

259  PEGASUS  IN  POUND 

Pegasus :  a  winged  horse,  said  to  have  sprung  from  the  blood  of 
Medusa  when  she  was  killed  by  Perseus. 

266  OLD  IRONSIDES 

This  poem  was  suggested  by  the  proposal  to  break  up  the  famous 
old  American  warship  Constitution,  called  "  Old  Ironsides,"  and 
sell  the  timber  and  iron. 

279  THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE 

This  charge  was  made  during  the  battle  of  Balaklava,  in  the  Crimean 
War,  in  1854,  and  was  the  result  of  the  misunderstanding  of  an 
order. 

291  THE  BROOK 

Hern  :  heron. 

307  CALLICLES'  SONG  OF  APOLLO 

Apollo  :  god  of  music  and  leader  of  the  nine  muses. 
357  QUEEN  ALCESTIS  AND  THE  GOD  OF  LOVE 

Met :  dreamed.  Tho  :  then.  Flowrouns  :  borders  of  flowers.  Lite  : 
little.  A'  perle :  one  pearl.  Greves :  groves,  i.e.  leaves  and 
branches  in  the  embroidered  design.  Gilte  :  golden.  Unneathes  : 
scarcely.  Gledes  :  coals. 

359  DAME  NATURE  CROWNS  THE  LION 

Compear :   appear  at  court.     Cheer :   face.     Corpse :   body.     But 

fear  :  without  fear.     Listly  :  easily.     Busteous  :  rough. 
Unicorn  :   a  fabulous  animal,  like  a  horse,  with  one  horn  in  the 
middle  of  the  forehead.  f 

361  To  MISTRESS  MARGARET  HUSSEY 

Isiphil :  Hypsipyle,  queen  of  Lemnos. 
Pomander  :  a  perfumed  ball  to  carry  in  the  pocket. 

363  LORD  RONALD 
Broo  :  broth. 

364  THE  GARDENER 

Jimp:  slender.  Weed:  dress.  Camovine :  camomile.  Brade : 
broad.  Cute  :  ankle.  Braivn  :  calf. 

394 


PAGE 

366  GLENLOGIE 

Maun:  must.  Gar:  make  some  one.  Frae :  from.  His  lane. 
alone.  Gaed  ben :  went  in.  Binna  :  be  not. 

374  DESCRIFHON  OF  SPRING 

Mings  :  mingles'.     Springs  :  revives. 

376  WAKE  NOW,  MY  LOVE,  AWAKE 

The  Epithalamion,  Or  wedding  hymn,  from  which  these  two  selec- 
tions are  taken,  was  written  in  honor  of  Spenser's  own  marriage. 

Mavis:  song-thrush.  Descant:  variation.  Ouzell :  blackbird. 
Ruddock  :  redbreast. 

378  CUPID  AND  THE  BEE 

Closely :  secretly. 

382  MENAPHON'S  ROUNDELAY 

Whereas:  where. 

Ganymede,  the  beautiful  youth  who  served  the  gods  as  cupbearer, 
seems  to  have  been  on  companionable  terms  with  the  eagle,  the 
favorite  bird  of  Jove,  or  Jupiter,  and  sometimes  even  to  have 
employed  him  as  a  messenger. 


395 


INDEX    OF   FIRST   LINES 


A  baby's  eyes,  ere  speech  begin 334 

A  baby's  feet,  like  sea-shells  pink 333 

A  baby's  hands,  like  rosebuds  furl'd 333 

A  baby  was  sleeping          .........  208 

A  chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 174 

A  country  life  is  sweet 83 

A  fair  little  girl  sat  under  a  tree         . 277 

A  green  silk  frock  her  comely  shoulders  clad    .         .         .         .         -38 

A  lake  and  a  fairy  boat 204 

A  nightingale  that  all  day  long 74 

A  parrot  from  the  Spanish  main 168 

A  spaniel,  Beau,  that  fares  like  you 77 

A  sunny  shaft  did  I  behold 124 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea 196 

A  widow  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  love 156 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase) 185 

About  the  sweet  bag  of  a  bee .         .46 

Adieu,  adieu!  my  native  shore 151 

Ah,  county  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh 141 

Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for  burning 138 

All  ye  woods,  and  trees,  and  bowers  .         .  - 29 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true        .         .         .         .         .         .         -67 

And  when,  its  force  expended 311 

Art  thou  the  bird  whom  man  loves  best 1 20 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 17 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears       .        r        .122 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down .  266 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way          ....  72 

397 


Bird  of  the  wilderness 1 88 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man      . 243 

Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away 295 

Break,  break,  break 278 

Burly  dozing  humble-bee 239 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly 65 

But  hark  !  a  distant  sound  that  grows 299 

Come,  listen  to  another  song 216 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love    .......  386 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands    .    / 6 

Come  ye  into  the  summer  woods        . 224 

Crabbed  age  and  youth .         .         .12 

Daily  the  fishers'  sails  drift  out  . 342 

Dame  Nature  ordered  every  bird  and  beast 359 

Darby  dear,  we  are  old  and  gray 349 

Diaphenia,  like  the  daffadowndilly 380 

Did  you  hear  of  the  curate  who  mounted  his  mare    ....  193 
Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say?     The  sparrow,  the  dove  .         .         .127 

Encinctured  with  a  twine  of  leaves 126 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime 183 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see    ........  45 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep    .         . 140 

Feed  on,  my  flocks,  securely 381 

First  April,  she  with  mellow  showers         .         .         .         .         .         -47 

Fly,  white  butterflies,  out  to  sea 335 

For  the  tender  beech  and  the  sapling  oak 195 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies 7 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body     .         . 85 

Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes 34 

Good-by,  good-by  to  summer     .         . 320 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass 186 

Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances        .        .        .        .         .  1 34 

398 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league 79 

Happy  insect,  what  can  be         ........  54 

Happy  the  man  whose  wish  and  care 62 

Hark,  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings 3 

Haymakers,  rakers,  reapers,  and  mowers 32 

Her  chariot  straight  is  ready  made 19 

Here  she  was  wont  to  go,  and  here,  and  here 26 

Hey,  the  dusty  miller 87 

Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea 323 

How  should  I  your  true  love  know    .         * 16 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 70 

How  sweet  is  the  shepherd's  sweet  lot                 .         .         .         .         .  108 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers    .         .         .      -  .         .  157 

I  cannot  heal  thy  green  gold  breast 267 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern 291 

I  fell  asleep  and  slept  an  hour  or  two 357 

had  a  dove,  and  the  sweet  dove  died 163 

have  a  little  shadow  that  goes  in  and  out  with  me  .         .         .         .  35 1 

have  no  name          ..........  107 

know  a  place  where  the  sun  is  like  gold 341 

'11  tell  you  how  the  sun  rose 340 

I  remember,  I  remember 202 

I  saw  him  once  before 264 

I  tell  thee,  Dick,  where  I  have  been  .         .         .         ...         .         .48 

I  thought  it  was  the  little  bed 322 

I've  watch'd  you  now  a  full  half  hour        .         .         .         .         .         .118 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 112 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes  .....  242 

In  petticoat  of  green 28 

In  summer  on  the  headlands 304 

In  the  hollow  tree  in  the  gray  old  tower 200 

In  the  hush  of  the  autumn  night 337 

In  their  ragged  regimentals        ........  273 

In  thy  hammock  gently  sleeping 207 

Into  the  sunshine 269 

In  winter  I  get  up  at  night 353 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 23 

399 


It  was  a  summer  evening 131 

It  was  the  charming  month  of  May 98 

It  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autumnal  rain    .         .         .  246 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met 184 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John ".91 

Laid  in  my  quiet  bed  in  study  as  I  were 375 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone 301 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth 73 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 104 

Lord  Lovel  he  stood  at  his  castle  gate 368 

Lo !  where  she  comes  along  with  portly  pace 377 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale 150 

Maxwelton  braes  are  bonny 84 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed 232 

Merry  Margaret 361 

Monsieur  the  cure  down  the  street 346 

My  banks  they  are  furnished  with  bees 69 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you 315 

My  heart's  in  the  highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here      ....  90 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 119 

My  Peggy  is  a  young  thing 63 

My  tea  is  nearly  ready,  and  the  sun  has  left  the  sky  .        .        .        .352 

Nae  shoon  to  hide  her  tiny  taes 228 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea 128 

No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more 165 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note 220 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts  from  whom  all  glories  are        .         .212 

Now  that  the  winter's  gone  the  earth  hath  lost 43 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger 56 

Now  the  glories  of  the  year _  .  40 

Now  the  golden  morn  aloft 71 

Now  the  hungry  lion  roars 10 

O  blithe  newcomer !  I  have  heard     .        .        .        .        •        *        .no 

400 


0  hush  thee,  my  babie,  thy  sire  was  a  knight 144 

O  mount  and  go 89 

O  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 93 

O  then  I  see  Queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you 5 

O  where  ha'e  ye  been,  Lord  Ronald,  my  son? 363 

O  wilt  thou  go  wi'  me  ? 88 

Of  speckled  eggs  the  birdie  sings 354 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 181 

Oft  when,  returning  with  her  loaded  bill 66 

Oh  fireflies,  fireflies,  light  all  your  candles 345 

Oh,  heard  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in  the  gale         .         .         .         .172 

Oh,  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home 313 

Oh!  thou  that  swing'st  upon  the  waving  ear 51 

Oh  to  be  in  England . 294 

Oh,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west 147 

Old  Meg  she  was  a  gypsy 161 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low 177 

On  the  green  banks  of  Shannon  when  Sheelah  was  nigh   .         .         .170 

On  the  sward  at  the  cliff  top 307 

Once  into  a  quiet  village .  259 

Our  band  is  few  but  true  and  tried 236 

Over  hill,  over  dale    .         . 9 

Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day  / 35 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 145 

Piped  the  blackbird  on  the  beechwood  spray 327 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild 99 

Queen  and  Huntress  chaste  and  fair .         .         .         .  .         .27 

Sabrina  fair,  listen  where  thou  art  sitting 57 

Scots,  wha  ha'e  wi'  Wallace  bled 96 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  love         -. 24 

Shed  no  tear!  oh,  shed  no  tear  !        . 160 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing       ........  94 

Shepherds  all  and  maidens  fair 30 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep      .         .         .         . 330 

Sleep,  sleep,  beauty  bright .        .100 

401 


So  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast 42 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king          ...  22 
Stand  by  the  Flag.     Its  stars  like  meteors  gleaming  .         .         .         .271 

Stars  of  the  summer  night 258 

Sun  comes,  moon  comes 288 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low 290 

Sweet  day  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright 52 

Sweet  Suffolk  owl,  so  trimly  dight 21 

Swung  in  the  hollows  of  the  deep 343 

Tell  me  where  is  fancy  bred 14 

That  way  look,  my  infant,  lo ! 115 

The  baron  hath  the  landward  park,  the  fisher  hath  the  sea         .         .  222 

The  cock  is  crowing 117 

The  days  are  cold,  the  nights  are  long 123 

The  evening  comes,  the  fields  are  still 309 

The  fairy  beam  upon  you 23 

The  frost  is  here 289 

The  frugal  snail  with  forecast  of  repose 187 

The  gard'ner  stands  in  his  bower  door 364 

The  gorse  is  yellow  on  the  heath 82 

The  grass  so  little  has  to  do                .         .         .                  .         .         .  339 

The  greenhouse  is  my  summer  seat    .......  80 

The  mellow  year  is  hasting  to  its  close 167 

The  morns  are  meeker  than  they  were 338 

The  mountain  and  the  squirrel 241 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 276 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead      .         .         .         .         .         .         .164 

The  rose  upon  my  balcony,  the  morning  air  perfuming      .         .         .312 

The  sea!  the  sea!  the  open  sea 198 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls       .         .         .         .         .         .         .  286 

The  sun  descending  in  the  west         .......  106 

The  sun  does  arise 102 

The  sun  rises  bright  in  France 197 

The  sweet  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings  ....  374 

The  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain 53 

The  trumpets' loud  clangor 61 

The  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy 250 

402 


The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wailing     .         .         .         .  155 

The  year's  at  the  spring 296 

Then  as  a  nimble  squirrel  from  the  wood 37 

There  is  a  reaper  whose  name  is  Death 252 

There  the  wrinkled,  old  Nokomis       .         .         .         .         .         .         .  254 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night 153 

There  was  a  youth  and  a  well-beloved  youth 371 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  morning  clew 235 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  West 314 

Threescore  o'  nobles  rade  to  the  king's  ha' 366 

Through  the  shrubs  as  I  gan  crack 384 

Thy  tuwhits  are  lull'd  I  wot 283 

Toll  for  the  brave 75 

To  sea,  to  sea  !  the  calm  is  o'er 219 

Tread  lightly  here,  for  here  'tis  said 109 

'Twas  on  a  Monday  morning     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .190 

Twist  me  a  crown  of  wind-flowers 332 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 262 

Under  the  green  hedges  after  the  snow 227 

Under  the  greenwood  tree          ........  4 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window 325 

Up  in  the  morning's  no'  for  me 86 

Up  the  airy  mountain 317 

Up,  up,  ye  dames  and  lasses  gay         . 125 

Up  with  me  !  up  with  me  into  the  clouds 113 

Upon  a  dayj  as  Love  lay  sweetly  slumbering 378 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay 142 

Wake  now,  my  love,  awake  !  for  it  is  time 376 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the  town 229 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn 336 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin ,  .         .         .  268 

Welcome,  maids  of  honor           ........  44 

What  does  little  birdie  say 287 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead 60 

When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad       .         .         .         .         .         .         .316 

When  cats  run  home,  and  light  is  come     ......  282 

403 


When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 13 

When  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy 210 

When  first  my  brave  Johnnie  lad 92 

When  tender  ewes,  brought  home  with  evening  sun  ....  382 

When  the  cows  come  home  the  milk  is  coming  ....  332 
When  the  green  woods  laugh  with  the  voice  of  joy  .  .  .  .101 
When  the  voices  of  children  are  heard  on  the  green  .  .  .105 
Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go  .  .  .  .310 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I 6 

Where  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep 189 

While  larks  with  little  wings 95 

Whither  away,  fair  neat-herdess 348 

Who  is  Sylvia?     What  is  she 15 

Who  would  be  a  mermaid  fair 285 

Who  would  be  a  merman  bold 284 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladye 136 

With  fair  Ceres,  Queen  of  Grain 36 

Within  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn  bush 192 

Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king 230 

Ye  mariners  of  England 179 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon 297 

You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue 8 

Young  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn 205 


404 


INDEX   OF    POETS 


Adams,  Jean 67 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey 336 

Allingham,  William 3!7 

Anonymous 83 

Arnold,  Matthew 304 

Aytoun,  William  Edmondstoune 216 

Ballads .  363 

Barnfield,  Richard 17 

Beddoes,  Thomas  Lovell 219 

Blake,  William 99 

Browne,  William 37 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett       .         . 3O1 

Browning,  Robert 294 

Bryant,  William  Cullen 232 

Burns,  Robert 86 

Byron,  Lord 151 

Campbell,  Thomas .168 

Carew,  Thomas 43 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey 357 

Clare,  John 192 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh 3IQ 

Coleridge,  Hartley 167 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor 124 

Collins,  William 7° 

Constable,  Henry 380 

Cornwall,  Barry  —  see  B.  W.  Procter. 

Cowley,  Abraham 53 

Cowper,  William 73 

Cunningham,  Allan    ....                  196 

405 


Dekker,  Thomas 32 

Dickinson,  Emily 338 

Dobell,  Sidney 323 

Dobson,  Austin 346 

Drayton,  Michael 19 

Dryden,  John 61 

Drummond,  William .                  28 

Dunbar,  William 359 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo 239 

Fields,  James  T 268 

Fletcher,  John 29 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 72 

Gray,  Thomas 71 

Greene,  Robert          .        .         ^ 382 

Herbert,  George 52 

Herrick,  Robert 44 

Heywood,  Thomas 35 

Higginson,  Ella 342 

Hogg,  James 188 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell 264 

Hood,  Thomas 2O2 

Houghton,  Lord 277 

Howitt,  Mary 222 

Hunt,  Leigh       .         .         . .184 

Jonson,  Ben 23 

Keats,  John 160 

Kingsley,  Charles 313 

Lamb,  Charles 187 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth 250 

Lovelace,  Richard 51 

Lover,  Samuel 205 

Lowell,  James  Russell .        .  269 

406 


Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington,  Lord 212 

Marlowe,  Christopher 386 

Marvell,  Andrew 60 

Maxwell,  Lady  Stirling  —  see  Caroline  E.  S.  Norton. 

McMaster,  Guy  Humphreys .         .  273 

Miller,  Hugh 228 

Miller,  William 229 

Milnes,  Richard  Monckton  —  see  Lord  Houghton. 

Milton,  John 56 

Moore,  Thomas 181 

Moultrie,  John 227 

Nash,  Thomas 22 

Norton,  Caroline  E.  S 230 

O'Hara,  Theodore 276 

Oldys,  William 65 

Peacock,  Thomas  Love 193 

Pope,  Alexander .         .         .62 

Prentiss,  Elizabeth 330 

Procter,  B.  W 198 

Ramsay,  Allan 63 

Rogers,  Samuel 109 

Rossetti,  Christina  Georgina 332 

Scott,  Sir  Walter 134 

Shakespeare,  William 3 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe 155 

Shenstone,  William .         .69 

Skelton,  John .  361 

Smith,  Charlotte 82 

Southey,  Robert 128 

Spenser,  Edmund .  376 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis 351 

Suckling,  Sir  John .48 

Surrey,  Earl  of 374 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles .         .  333 

407 


Tennyson,  Alfred 278 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace 311 

Thomson,  James 66 

Vautor,  Thomas 21 

Very,  Jones 267 

Weatherly,  Frederic  E 349 

Westwood,  Thomas 325 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf 243 

Wilder,  John  Nichols 271 

Wither,  George .40 

Wolfe,  Charles 220 

Wordsworth,  William         . no 

Wordsworth,  Dorothy 123 


408 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

OF  THE 

BEST  SONGS  AND  LYRICAL  POEMS 
IN  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE. 

SELECTED  AND  ARRANGED  WITH  NOTES 

By  FRANCIS  TURNER  PALGRAVE. 

18mo.    Cloth.     $1.00. 


"  We  have  frequently  expressed  our  preference,  among  all  collec- 
tions of  English  Lyrical  Poetry,  for  'The  Golden  Treasury.'  It  is 
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taste  of  scholars  than  ten  times  the  amount  invested  in  most  of  the 
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"It  is  a  veritable  golden  treasury  of  verse.  Every  piece  here 
given  has  long  been  familiar  to  every  lover  of  English  poetry  at  the 
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Review. 


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"  Delightful  books  for  boys  and  girls.  They  are  so  much  superior  to 
many  of  the  frivolous  books  issued  under  the  title  of  *  Children's  Litera- 
ture.' "  —  Supt.  J.  M.  GREENWOOD,  Kansas  City,  Mo. 

"  As  a  school  officer  I  have  to  thank  you  for  putting  within  the  reach  of 
scholars  such  valuable  portions  of  the  world's  literature."  —  Supt.  JOHN  '  . 
IRWIN,  Ft.  Wayne,  Ind. 

"  I  trust  that  the  series  you  are  preparing  may  be  appreciated  by  teach  irs 
of  the  young  everywhere.  The  volumes  are  certainly  of  the  most  deserv- 
ing character."  —  Supt.  G.  J.  McANDREW,  Plattsburg,  N.Y. 

"The  Macmillan  Company  has  put  the  reading  public  in  general,  and 
school-children  in  particular,  under  lasting  obligations  by  reprinting  some 
of  its  standard  works  in  cheaper  form  under  the  title  Macmillari's  School 
Library.  .  .  .  Every  school  library  should  have  these  volumes  to  make 
it  complete."  —  The  Educational  Courant. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY,  Publishers, 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 

2 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
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9  Ma/60  £R 

«tC  D  L^ 

MM  1  1  1960 

General  Library 
LD  21A-50m-4  '60                              University  of  California 
CA9562slO)476B                                                 Berkeley 

4417 


